The insurance proceeds are necessary for Nina because saving money wasn’t Dad’s forte—using all available cash on reckless get-rich schemes, such as opening a taco franchise when there were already two in the same zip code or buying up a bunch of biotech stock based on a tip he overheard at lunch, was what he was good at.

So while Mom might be mad at Nina forever, I’m fine with not getting anything. I’d also be fine with not being Pat Wilson’s real daughter at the moment if that meant I could leave.

The slight chemical smell of the funeral home, the hushed whispers, and the casket sitting in the other room were all making that space between my shoulder blades—the one I can’t reach from either above or below—begin to itch.

“Ellen, my goodness. I wondered if you would come. How are you holding up?” A big woman with a beak of a nose dressed in a black floral dress leans down to envelop Mom. I breathe in a wave of lavender and eucalyptus, which makes my empty stomach turn over. “I can’t believe Patrick is gone and so young, too. I heard it was a heart attack?”

“Yes, while he was mowing the grass, can you believe it? His arteries were a mess. I always told him he needed to lower his cholesterol.”

“How could he when he was married to you, though? You always made the most delicious desserts. Potlucks haven’t been the same since you and Pat got the divorce. Do you still make that chocolate mousse? You told me your secret once and I forgot.”

“Ice,” Mom explains, happy to be distracted. “Everything needs to be cold. I even freeze the whisk that I use to whip the egg whites. That’s the key to a perfect piecrust, too. Cold butter. So many people forget that. I have this book I adore even though I know paper books are outdated these days.”

“I love paper cookbooks, too!” declares the other woman.

The two fall into a discussion about the merits of print versus internet recipes. The new ones can’t compare. Since Mom is occupied and the overwhelming perfume is threatening to make me sick, I decide to move. Over the woman’s head, I point to my barely touched tea and mouth that I’m getting a replacement. Mom gives me an encouraging smile and motions me off.

I drop my cup into a nearby trash can and wander over to the memory table. Set up near the poster board full of pictures is a television monitor. It plays a loop of photos and videos of Dad’s life. Nina put it together so I’m not surprised that large chunks of Dad’s life are unrepresented in the movie, but I find myself engaged anyway. There are baby pictures. A montage of old school photos with Dad holding a baseball bat and then a football and then at a track-and-field event. There’s an image of him leaning against a bright blue sedan and then another at prom followed by a young Patrick throwing his graduation cap in the air.