The children swarmed the flower beds like eager little bees, plucking blossoms with varying degrees of gentleness. Tomas proudly held up a fistful of stems, though half of them were crushed, and the other half looked suspiciously weed-like.
“Look, Miss Evelyn! I found the shy flowers!”
Cecelia stifled a laugh beside her. “He means weeds. Again.”
“They’re not weeds,” Tomas insisted, cheeks puffed with indignation. “They just don’t like being called that.”
Evelyn accepted the assortment with both hands, giving the boy a solemn nod. “Then we’ll treat them gently.”
Tomas glowed under the attention.
The sun warmed her shoulders as she guided the group to a shaded bench. The simple act of sitting among them surrounded by small hands, bright eyes, and the gentle rustle of petals was strange
