But today, I was playing the part assigned to me: the inconvenient antique.

“Try to stay out of the way, Grandma Rose,” Tiffany had said earlier, her voice dripping with that sickeningly sweet tone one uses for toddlers and golden retrievers. She had lusted over this venue for months, preening for the cameras, ensuring every angle was perfect. And apparently, a wheelchair didn’t fit the aesthetic of “Modern Aristocracy.”

I watched her now, circulating through the room. Tiffany was undeniably beautiful, in the way a plastic flower is beautiful—flawless, vibrant, and utterly devoid of life. She laughed with the senator’s wife, threw her head back to show off her swan-like neck, and kept a possessive hand on my grandson, Mark.