Gemotions

The sunlight seemed to highlight every flaw in the peeling paint of the porch. Sarah gripped the doorframe, her knuckles white. Across the fence, Mr. Peterson was already starting to cultivate a new bed in his meticulously planned vegetable plot.

He was a retired landscaper, of course. Everything in his garden was vibrant and orderly. Sarah hated looking out there and comparing it to her own, neglected lawn, a constant reminder of how she had been struggling to keep up with the simplest tasks.

He was now approaching the fence. She braced herself. She knew what was coming.

"Morning, Sarah," Mr. Peterson said, his voice cheerful. "Lovely day, isn't it? I was hoping I could plant some cucumbers along the fence line. Your side seems to get a good amount of sun." Sarah found herself unable to meet his gaze, suddenly fascinated by a small crack in the concrete of her porch step.