By Virginia Carraway Stark
“The storm is too bad, I can hear the orchard creaking… branches breaking…” She moaned.
I glowered at Margaret. “I know that, but what do you want me to do about it?”
Anytime my son left his pretty insipid wife on her own, I was inevitably left to ‘babysit’ her. She was passably good as a mother and as a wife for my son, I suppose. Anytime there was a crisis she felt to pieces, just like now. Stated the obvious was only one of her many failings.
I never tried to hide my scorn for her and turned away from her apologetic response, “I’m sorry Father, of course, we will have to wait and pray.”
Conciliatory should have been Margret’s middle name, while her concerns were pointless, I too, was afraid of the howling wind and the sound of wood breaking. The orchard had…
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