She has always had that rebellious streak. Gets it from her mother, no doubt. Darling would always cause a scene at gatherings, being rude and unseemly. Purposely saying things at inappropriate moments, right as I joined her circle, just to see my face go red as her hair. A smirk was constantly on her pink lips, a confident build in her broad shoulders, a defiant swing in that freckled hand on her hip. She was the ringleader, tricking girls into shirking their responsibilities and heritage, obeying their mischievous whims and not their fathers. That gleam in her eye never left, even after she got settled down and started a family.
The day I saw that gleam stolen haunts me forever.
Now, my grandchildren live with me. Darling’s daughter is like her little clone. Chip, we call her. Off the old block. Her hair is every bit as red and wavy, her face every bit as freckled. I knew I was going to have just as hard a time raising her when the little tot swindled me into doing her chores for four days in a row. I will never forget the look on the choir master's face when she insulted his intelligence, weight, and voice in a single quip. He was not mad-- he downright did not understand what she had said. Chip was too clever for her own good. It was as if she had to think up a new way to defy me than her mother.
But now she has gone too far. Too far, I say. I have handled her quips, juggled her jobs, apologized on her behalf, and cleaned up every mess left behind on her path. Yet this is the worse by far.
She has fallen in love. And worse, with a Tory. How could she do this to me?
But, knowing me, and more so, knowing her, soon I will be flying the British flag and drinking British tea.
God save the Queen, I suppose.
This is also from my Writing Camp! The first line was the prompt, credited to Eden Smith and Sam Jaramillo!
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