May 20th, Saturday, 10:08 AM — the suburban breeze outside Chicago carried a hint of sweetness.

I had just parked in the driveway when Claire waved from the front door. The moment I stepped inside, I was met with a mix of aromas: fresh coffee, citrus essential oil, and warm cranberry scones straight from the oven.

But what caught my eye was the round dining table—a burst of deep blue catching the sunlight with golden edges. I froze for a moment, just staring.

The table was dressed in an ivory cotton-linen cloth, layered with pale gray lace. A white ceramic pot painted with gold branches held three stalks of orchids—one left, one right, one center. The petals looked just like morning lake water. Around the base, a few faux eucalyptus stems and ferns nestled in, their inky blue and forest green tones rich but not overwhelming.

I reached out and touched a petal—cool, with a perfectly natural curl. Even the “pollen” at the center looked convincingly dusted on.

“Fake flowers,” Claire said, leaning against the doorway with a grin. “Had it a week. Tommy already hit it with a football—still standing.”

I remembered the real moth orchid she had last year. It drooped in three days. She handed me a scone, the buttery warmth clashing gently with the orchid’s delicate fragrance.

A bit of cream smudged the tablecloth. She wiped it away with a napkin, brushing past a petal—it looked untouched, like nothing had happened.

Mark passed by with a towel over his shoulder, gave the stem a squeeze, and said, “This thing’s more reliable than I am.” Then he kept heading upstairs.

We sat in the living room with tea, but my gaze kept drifting to that spot of blue. In sunlight, it glowed. On cloudy days, it deepened like ink. Under the dining light at dinner, it turned soft and dusky lilac.

“Fresh flowers are too expensive,” Claire said. “Switching them out weekly adds up. This fake one cost less than two rounds.” She pointed to a faux dew drop clinging to a petal. “And it still looks alive, unlike dried flowers.”

I pictured my own empty dining table—vacant for half a year. Morning light through the blinds, the smell of toast and the news, and that burst of blue in the center. Evenings under a warm lamp, it would quietly keep me company as I read.

Before I left, she AirDropped me the purchase link. “Pick the midnight blue one. It’ll match your walnut table.”

On the drive back, I passed a flower shop. The real orchids in the window were already yellowing. The clerk called out a discount—I didn’t stop. Just thinking about watering, shade, cats—it was exhausting.

That evening, standing in front of my bare dining table, I could already picture it: the orchid in the middle, light tracing the edges of each petal, me brewing tea beside it. Everything calm. Everything in place.

It was time to give myself a surprise that wouldn’t wilt.