Two Southern ladies lounged on the sweeping veranda of a grand, white-pillared estate, the kind of home that whispered tales of generations past. The afternoon sun cast a golden hue over the landscape, and the warm breeze carried the sweet scent of blooming jasmine. Their rocking chairs moved in slow unison, accompanied by the soft clink of ice in tall glasses of sweet tea garnished with lemon slices.
They spoke of family traditions, the latest chatter from town, and the charming details that made Southern living an art—embroidered napkins, Sunday brunches, and the subtle power of a well-placed compliment.
The first woman, clearly proud of her life’s comforts, leaned in with a satisfied sigh.
“Darlin’,” she began, “when our first little one arrived, my husband was so overjoyed, he had this entire house built for me. Every shutter, every floorboard—just his way of saying thank you.”
The second lady gave a warm, slow smile.
“Well, bless your heart,” she replied sweetly.
Encouraged by the response, the first woman went on.
“And when our second baby came along, he surprised me with that convertible parked out front—red as a rose, not a scratch on it.”
The second lady nodded gracefully and took a delicate sip.
“Well, bless your heart.”
The first woman, now glowing with pride, held out her hand to reveal a sparkling bracelet.
“And when number three was born, he gave me this—solid platinum and covered in diamonds. Isn’t it divine?”
The second woman rocked a little slower, her expression unreadable except for a flicker of humor behind her eyes.
“Well, bless your heart,” she said again, syrupy smooth.
Curious now, the first lady leaned closer.
“And what did your husband give you when your first was born?”
The second lady tilted her head back, smiled just so, and replied with a drawl that could melt butter:
“He gave me a wedding ring.”