If there's one thing we know for sure about the wealthy, it's that they don't like to be inconvenienced. And when one leads a life where commuting means hopping in an Uber helicopter and melons exist only as perfectly formed bite-size balls, why should they be made to feel sad about some dead lady every time they take the Jag out for a spin?

Sister Jacqueline Walsh—indeed, a nun—was taking a walk near Water Mill Convent on Rose Hill Road in July of 2012 when she was struck and killed by a driver who fled the scene, CBS New York reports. A memorial sign bearing her name was installed to celebrate Sister Jackie's life, a small gesture to honor a woman who taught at St. Edward the Confessor in Syosset and did outreach all over Long Island.

But to the 43 residents of Rose Hill Road, the sign is an uncomfortable reminder of an unsavory event, a thrashing gnat in the otherwise perfect gin fizz of life. Even if they've managed to cope with the memorial buzzkill, they're sick of having to recount to inquiring visitors who Sister Jackie is and what strings she had to pull to get her own sign. There is a very strong possibility that these are the same people who wish to deny gay people the right to marry because they don't want to have to take the roughly 1.5 minutes required to explain it to their kids.

Not only do they privately find the sign distasteful, residents of Rose Hill Road have actually pooled their efforts to have the sign removed, venting their agitation in a town survey: “Every time someone visits, I am forced to recount this tragedy because they ask who Sister Jackie was,” said one. “While I have no doubt Sister Jackie was a wonderful person…her tragic death while visiting us is not an event residents wish to recall.”

Though parishioners at Water Mill want the sign to remain in place, it turns out that local code conveniently prohibits name changes to signs without official resolution, meaning it will be removed. Soon, Rose Hill Road residents (and their guests!) can resume living their utterly unblemished lives, at least until someone chokes on a bite of filet mignon or accidentally sees the cover of a newspaper some careless servant neglected to burn.