Margaret was sixty and still stunning in a way that made strangers assume she was happy. She always looked like she belonged on the cover of something—chin lifted, lipstick perfect, hair styled with just enough effort to look effortless. People used to tell me I was lucky.
I used to agree.
We pulled up at the airport departure terminal. Margaret checked her phone again without looking at me, then reached back for her luggage—expensive leather on wheels I’d bought her the Christmas before.
“Don’t forget to water my orchids,” she said.
It was a small thing, but it landed wrong. Not the orchids themselves—Margaret loved them the way she loved everything delicate and high-maintenance—but the tone. Like a supervisor leaving instructions for an employee.
“I won’t,” I said, leaning in for a goodbye kiss.
She turned her cheek at the last second. My lips brushed her hair instead.
“Have a wonderful time,” I said anyway. “You deserve it.”