Gemotions

The chipped mug felt suddenly heavy in Sarah's hand. Liam was regaling the room, as he was prone to do, with the tale of their disastrous attempt to build a treehouse in their youth. He was weaving it with dramatic flair, emphasizing the comical ineptitude. But that wasn’t how she remembered it.

She shifted in the worn armchair, the springs protesting under her weight. His version painted *him* as the resourceful one, the leader, and her as… the clumsy sidekick. A muscle flickered in her jaw. She took a deliberate sip of the lukewarm tea, the silence the only sound.

“And then, Sarah, remember? You dropped the hammer straight on my foot!” he guffawed, clapping his hand on his knee.

Sarah forced a smile. “Funny,” she mumbled, her voice tight. The memory, hers, was different. *She* had done most of the heavy lifting. *He* had been the one distracted, chattering about comic books. And *he* had been the one who'd actually dropped the hammer.