Gemotions

Sarah glared at the brightly colored artwork pinned to the fridge. Her son, Leo, had been bubbling with excitement all week about school. "Mrs. Peterson is so nice, Mom!" he'd chirped. Sarah had almost choked on her morning toast when she heard the name. Mrs. Peterson, the woman who’d relentlessly criticized her creative writing in high school.

She spent the day in a thick fog of agitation. Every time she looked at Leo, she felt a tightening in her chest, a prickling sensation that traveled down her arms. She kept finding herself snapping at him over trivial things, a behavior she immediately regretted. He didn't deserve to be a casualty of her past.

That evening, she avoided making eye contact with her reflection in the mirror. She ran her hands through her hair, a frustrated gesture, then poured herself a double scotch, the harsh bite a momentary relief from the churning anxiety.