Hold The Flowers
A short story for Mother's Day
The air outside Up & Adam was thick with jasmine and the ghost of last night’s rain. In New Orleans, the morning always smells like music and memories. The Saturday brunch crowd buzzed around them, but the table on the side patio belonged to them, had for years now. It was their little ritual. Mimosas and mess. Beignets and boldness.
Renee poured the last of the champagne into her orange juice, her wedding ring catching the sun like it was showing off. Thirty-five, childfree, married to the same woman for a decade, and still not entirely convinced she wasn’t just playing house.
“Y’all are lucky I’m even here,” she said, fanning herself. “Tasha tried to seduce me with homemade pancakes this morning. Real manipulative, with the fresh blueberries and everything.”
“Tragic,” sighed Danielle, thirty-four and already sipping her second Bloody Mary. “A wife who loves you and cooks for you. Must be awful.”
Renee laughed, but she caught the heaviness in Danielle’s voice. They all did. Danielle wore her widowhood like a second skin—something that still didn’t quite fit, even eight months later. Her husband, Marc, had been a firefighter. A damn good one. The kind who ran toward fire when everyone else ran from it. He hadn’t made it out of a warehouse blaze in Gentilly. Left behind their son, Elijah, and a silence in Danielle’s house that music couldn’t touch.
“I didn’t mean—” Renee started.
“I know,” Danielle cut in, quick and gentle. “It’s fine. Just ignore me. Elijah had a nightmare last night and crawled into bed with me. Kicked me in the ribs around 3 a.m. Been up ever since.”
Brielle reached across the table and took Danielle’s hand. At thirty-seven, Brielle was the oldest and the most unpredictable of the trio. Single by choice—or by some cosmic conspiracy, depending on the week—and currently deep into researching sperm donation. She always had a plan, or the outline of one, and a vibe like she might disappear to Bali if the vibe shifted.
“You’re doing amazing,” Brielle said softly. “It’s okay to say it’s hard. Especially this weekend.”
Danielle’s mouth twitched. “You mean the capitalist grief-fest known as Mother’s Day?”
“Exactly,” said Renee. “Overpriced flowers and ‘world’s best mom’ mugs for the win.”
They laughed, not because it was funny, but because sometimes laughter was the only way to keep the ache from swelling too big in the chest.
“Speaking of moms,” Brielle said, flipping through her phone. “I have my first consult with the fertility clinic next week.”
Danielle blinked. “You’re doing it?”
“I think I am. I mean, I haven’t picked a donor or anything. But yeah. I don’t want to wait for some man to stumble into my life like I’m a rom-com character. I want a baby, and I want that baby to know I chose them on purpose. With intention.”
Renee raised her glass. “To intention, then.”
They clinked glasses. The moment held, sweet and quiet. A soft breeze rustled the vines hanging above their table.
“You know,” Danielle said, stirring her drink, “I always assumed I’d have more time. Marc and I talked about maybe having another one after Elijah started school. Now I can’t imagine starting over. I’m too tired. Too... raw.”
“You don’t have to decide anything now,” Brielle said. “You just have to breathe.”
Danielle exhaled like she hadn’t in days.
The waiter brought their food—shrimp and grits for Renee, crab cake eggs Benedict for Brielle, a towering stack of French toast for Danielle that Elijah would help her finish when she took the rest home.
“Do you ever feel guilty?” Danielle asked, eyes on her fork. “For not wanting kids? I mean, with everything going on in the world. And me wishing I didn’t have to do this alone...”
Renee shook her head. “I used to. Not anymore. I love kids—I just don’t want to raise any. Tasha and I have this whole village thing going with our nieces and godbabies. I’m happy to be the cool aunt who sends books and teaches them how to make gumbo.”
Brielle nodded. “Same. I used to feel like I had to explain it to everyone. But now I just say, ‘It’s my body and my life.’ That’s the whole sentence.”
Danielle smiled. “That sounds nice. Simple.”
“You’ve already done the hard part,” Renee said. “You’re raising a kind, thoughtful kid in a world that doesn’t always deserve him. That’s holy work.”
“Hell yeah,” said Brielle. “And when I finally have this baby, they’re gonna need a godmother. Or two.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Renee said.
“Can I name them?” Danielle grinned.
Brielle made a face. “Absolutely not. You’ll name them after a jazz musician or a star constellation or something, and I’ll be stuck explaining why my kid is named Horace Lyra.”
The table dissolved into laughter again, but this time it stuck—deep in the belly, up through the chest. A sound that lifted them, even as the weight of grief, hope, and choices tugged gently at their ankles.
As the brunch crowd thinned and the sun crept higher in the sky, they lingered. Talking about nothing and everything. Elijah’s upcoming school play. Renee’s anniversary plans. Brielle’s donor spreadsheet with notes like “too short” and “bad taste in music.”
When they finally stood to leave, Danielle hesitated. “Hey... tomorrow. Mother’s Day. Would y’all come over for breakfast? Nothing fancy. Just... I don’t want to be alone.”
“Of course,” Renee said.
“I’ll bring pastries,” Brielle added.
Danielle nodded, eyes shining. “Thanks. I know I’m not the only one missing someone. I just—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Renee said, looping her arm through hers. “We show up for each other. That’s what we do.”
They walked slowly down the sidewalk, three women stitched together by love, loss, and loyalty. New Orleans hummed around them—streetcars clanging in the distance, jazz drifting from an open window, the scent of life ever blooming in the cracks.
Tomorrow would hurt, in ways both expected and sharp. But today, they were here. Together.
And for now, that was enough.
Word count: 1017
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