When my mother announced she'd discovered wall plants that never die, I assumed she'd finally cracked. She'd been spending too much time on those craft websites where middle-aged women turn mason jars into chandeliers and convince themselves that drinking straws can be repurposed as modern art. But then this perfect gift box arrived, looking like a rainbow had gotten into a fight with a cardboard factory and lost. Inside, perched like some sort of ceramic royalty, sat what can only be described as the most pretentious succulent I'd ever encountered. Teal - not blue, not green, but teal, as if it had very strong opinions about color theory and wouldn't hesitate to share them. Small enough to be cute but designed with the sort of artistic confidence that made you feel like maybe you were the one who didn't understand art. The keyhole mount on the back suggested it was meant for display, like a trophy from some alternative universe where plants decided to evolve into pottery. But here's the strange part - I hung it up, this little ceramic impostor, this succulent that would never need watering or judgment about its brown spots, and found myself completely charmed. It sat there on my wall, perpetually perfect, making my real plants look like they needed to try harder. Now visitors ask about my "statement piece," as if I'm the sort of person who makes statements through wall-mounted ceramics. I tell them it's an artistic interpretation of botanical immortality, which sounds much better than "it's a fake plant that doesn't know it's fake."