The fold-out tables on the far-left wall overflowed with foil trays of chicken, macaroni and cheese, greens, yams, and ribs. Well-wishers squeezed tilting cakes in Tupperware cases next to punch dispensers with floating citrus slices. Green cloths covered all the tables, giving the reception a decidedly Christmasy feel despite the warm weather.

Her mother stood in the middle of the aisle in a lovely eggshell brocaded dress she had painstakingly sewn herself. Bev was a bride. The reverend had finally come around. And god help them, Bev was insufferable.

Hours later, Bev hobbled to her children’s table, breathing heavily, undoubtedly from the unholy amount of booty shaking she was doing in a church basement. The last of the well-wishers filed out of the room, and Bev finally sat down.

She gestured. “See this, girls? Look around. This is a real Christian wedding.”

Liza would not take the bait. “Congratulations on your wedding, Ma.”

Bev pulled her heels off and pointed the toe of one shoe at Liza. “You flew us all out to the end of the world.”

“Mom, South Africa is actually not the end of the world.” Liza’s tone was flat.

Bev shrugged. “Where is it on a map? It just sounds made up.”

Deya elbowed Bev. “Ma, it’s on a map. It’s a famous country. Nelson Mandela’s from there.”

Maurice put a firm hand at his sister’s back. “Liza, Mom has a point. Cape of Good Hope looked like the edge of the world. But that’s what was so dope about it. I’m going back.”

Bev huffed and gestured to the table overflowing with wrapped gifts and presents. “And you didn’t even get any wedding gifts. You just had all of those rich-ass people there donate to the school? Child, I haven’t taught you anything.”

“Ma, you cried like a baby when that little girl gave you a hug after you donated those schoolbooks,” Liza said. The table rumbled with laughter at the memory.

Bev looked only slightly chagrined. “Well, that’s just human nature, Liza. I’ve always been a giver, but you shouldn’t put people to work at your wedding.”

Liza squeezed Dorsey’s thigh under the table. He gave her a lopsided smile. None of this matters, he seemed to say. “As always, sorry to disappoint, Ma.”

“It’s not worse than your sister—had us flying to a farm in Maine. Maine! Some states don’t have Black people on purpose.”

“I liked it,’’ LeDeya said. “I’ve never been horseback riding before.” She posted a picture of herself making a funny face. Deya was a social media powerhouse by now. At twenty she had eschewed college and began building a social media empire propped up solely on makeup influencer drama.

“But picking apples? They really had all those Black folks out there picking fruit?”