Many thanks to Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers and to David Stewart for such a beautiful picture.
The Lotus Flower
Generations of southern grace died when mother laid eyes on Binh clinging to Tim’s arm. Her lips wobbled trying to form a smile. Her hand, stopping mid-arc toward a handshake, fell to her side. Her fingers worried her pearls like a rosary. When her eyes moved to Tim’s, betrayal forming, I stepped forward.
“Binh! Hello,” I said. “Tim never stops talking about you.”
Binh’s eyes sparkled. A tear formed in the corner. Her smile, sad. “Thank you.”
I glanced toward mother but saw only the kitchen door swinging.
Tim kissed Binh’s knuckles.
We all expected different.
We all knew better.