“There ya go Mum, flowers.”
Simon’s mother barely grunted acceptance. She used to love him bringing her flowers once a week. She’d thrust her nose in and inhale the bouquet until she was giddy.
“Such a considerate son,” she’d boast to her friends at the WI.
Now it was as if he was bringing her mustard gas instead of perfume. Where they’d take pride of place in her favourite vase in the front window, now she relegated them to the kitchen sill and threw them out at the first petal drop.
She’d changed since he started his job at the crematorium.
Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.