Across the room, a bell tolls: silver on crystal, spoon to goblet—the universal call for attention, a toast to be made. Guests convene in the living room, finding arms of chairs on which to sit. Conversations fall to whispers, and all focus turns to Elizabeth, who is still tapping flatware against her wineglass. I stand tall in the back of the crowd, arms crossed at my chest, a lighthouse signaling reason, her sobering beacon.

“Hi,” Elizabeth says. “Hi, everyone. I wanted to thank you all for coming. I know most of you didn’t really know Nick, but it means a lot to us that you’d go out of your way to honor his memory and show up for Jonah—and for the cause. So thank you.”

Some guests prematurely raise glasses. Others mutter kind words. Most of them, though, are bubbling with anticipation for the sentiment threatening to spill.

“So I’ve been thinking about something,” she says, enunciating with pained focus. “There’s this thing my dad likes to say. He says, ‘You can measure people’s privilege by how much shit they disturb for fun.’ He says this whenever politicians or pro athletes recreationally throw their lives into turmoil, you know? His theory is that the people who get dealt crappy cards in life don’t have the time or energy or inclination to make life more difficult than it already is. They’re too busy working to make things better. But the lucky ones? The ones who were born into better, without any effort on our part—”

From a stiff crowd, a trace of forced laughter rises and falls.

“Well,” Elizabeth continues, “my dad says we lay our own traps just so we can pull ourselves up by the bootstraps. He says we do that so we can feel equal, because if we are equal, we don’t have to feel guilty about our good luck. We can tell ourselves we earned it.”

Now there is a polite cough and a rustling pantsuit, but no laughter. No one likes a killjoy. Oh, Elizabeth. Watch yourself.