Two Southern Belles sat on the wide veranda of a stately, white-columned mansion, the kind that seemed to hum with history. It was a warm summer afternoon, and the air was thick with the buzz of cicadas and the scent of honeysuckle. Their rocking chairs creaked in lazy rhythm as they sipped tall glasses of sweet iced tea, lemon wedges glinting in the sun.

They chatted about family, neighbors, and the little joys that made Southern life so rich—monogrammed linens, garden parties, and the art of saying everything with a smile.

The first lady, clearly basking in the glow of her well-appointed life, leaned forward with pride.
“Well, sugar,” she began, “when my first baby was born, my husband was so thrilled, he built me this entire mansion. Every column, every brick—just for me. A tribute to our little miracle.”

The second lady smiled politely, nodding with slow grace.
“Well, isn’t that nice,” she said, her voice soft as magnolia petals.

Encouraged, the first lady continued.
“And when our second child arrived, he outdid himself. Bought me that Cadillac out front—shiny, brand new. Every time I drive it, I think of how generous he is.”