Gemotions

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, a morning ritual for Beatrice, now felt tainted. Her daughter, Willow, had become a barista, not just at a coffee shop but, unbelievably, in their own kitchen. The precision with which Willow measured the beans, the way she steamed the milk, it was unnerving.

Beatrice spent her mornings now in the garden, puttering amongst the vegetables, her breath catching in her throat. She found herself snapping at her husband, searching for an outlet for an unnamable agitation.

“Did you remember to order the Sumatra beans?” she had asked Willow earlier, her voice sharp. Willow’s reply, a calm, "Of course, Mom," had set her teeth on edge.