I was perched on the porch of Margaret’s sprawling, white-pillared mansion, listening as she rattled off her latest gifts like she was reading a scoreboard.
“When my first child was born, my husband built me this house,” she said, gesturing to the estate behind us.
“Well, isn’t that nice,” I replied.
Then she pointed to the shiny Cadillac in the driveway — the gift for her second child.
“How lovely,” I said again.
Next came a diamond bracelet, a reward for her third. She held it up, waiting for awe, admiration… something more than my polite nod.
“Well, isn’t that nice,” I repeated.
Finally, she couldn’t hold it in.
“So,” she asked, leaning in with a smirk, “what did your husband give you when you had your first child?”
I smiled sweetly. “He sent me to charm school.”
Her brow furrowed. “Charm school? Instead of a house or jewelry?”
I laughed. “Exactly. So that instead of saying, ‘Who gives a crap,’ I could learn to say, ‘Well, isn’t that nice.’”
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