Sitting on the little chair, her perching nest, Mama used to call it, Sue Le traced the rim of the terracotta pot with her fingertips. How many times over the years had she sat in this little chair, this perching nest, and enjoyed the sight and scent of the many flowers—the roses, lilies, violets, and now a stunning, pink amaryllis?

Invariably her thoughts turned to Beni, that last time, with Mama off playing cards with friends, and Beni begging for just a touch. “You’ll be away at college,” Beni had pleaded, “and I’ll...” And she’d relented, letting his fingers trace her inner lips. “Oh, Sue Le,” he’d sighed. “Your flower is soft and beautiful.” She’d blushed and squeezed her legs together, momentarily trapping his hand there. Maybe she should have allowed more. Maybe everything. She could have had a baby. A child. A person who would be more than fifty years old now, likely with children, perhaps even grandchildren.