Gemotions

The radio blared in the garage as Elena, her apron stained with grease, listened to the morning show. The host was raving about "Mama Rosa's Meatballs," a new Italian restaurant. Elena's stomach twisted. Mama Rosa’s? That was her mother's name, the name she’d used for her catering business. The food was so similar it made her want to weep with the unfairness of it all.

She slammed the wrench down on the workbench, the metallic clang echoing in the small space. She’d spent her life perfecting her mother's recipe, using only the freshest ingredients, the secret touch of nutmeg. She had scraped together every single penny to buy the food truck. That woman had stolen her dream, and was profiting from it.

She marched back inside, grabbing her phone. She would not let this stand.