My mother named me Felicia, after her favorite flower, the blue daisy.
When I was young, I would always tell people she named me after the word in that ancient language that meant “lucky” and “happy.” What good was a flower after all? Why would she name me after something that wasn’t good for much other than looking lovely? Why didn’t she name me after something strong like the wind or an animal? I’m older now. I know why.
Mother needs me. And the only thing that stands between her and the sorrows and sufferings of a painful death is a flower.