For eight years, I invited the same friend to my Passover Seder. Eight RSVPs, eight no-shows. At a certain point it stops being flakiness and starts being a personality. I planned a whole ritual; she pretended to care.

Eventually I realized it wasn’t about dinner, it was about disinterest. No questions, no curiosity, no attempt to engage with something that mattered to me. Just a long-term commitment to not knowing, cultivating ignorance.

This year, she’s not invited. My table is for people who actually show up—for me, for the story, for the wine.

And tragically for her, this is the year she misses the best Seder I’ll ever host: April Fools’ Pesach. One of the plagues is fake and I’m not telling anyone which one.

Which means for the first time, the confusion is part of the ritual, not the guest list.