She died at 2:11 AM on a Wednesday, six weeks later. I got the call from Piper — the only call she's made to me since that Saturday. It was a professional call, if a phone call from a sister can be professional. She said, "Mom passed. The funeral is Monday. I assume you won't be coming." I said, "I'll be there." She said, "Please don't bother." She hung up. I went. I drove to Charleston with Graham the day before. I stood in the back of the chapel. I did not sit with my sisters. They did not look at me. I listened to Piper give a eulogy that was, in its structure, a prosecution of me — she did not name me, but she did not have to. She talked about the importance of being present for the people who made you. She talked about forgiveness. She talked about how my mother, in her last days, had "waited for a daughter who never came." At the reception, three of my mother's old friends approached me to tell me I should be ashamed. Elaine did not speak to me. I did not try to speak to her.