At sixty-two, I stopped sitting at the formal head table during Ferraro events.
Not every time.
Just as default.
The family had grown.
Marriages.
Children.
Divorces.
Half the room no longer understood why one man needed to sit above everyone because his grandfather had frightened more people than theirs.
Good.
At one gala, I sat beside Hannah Ward.
Someone asked why.
“She has better stories.”
True.
The old men survived.
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