Gemotions

The list lay open on the kitchen table, illuminated by a single overhead bulb. "Open a restaurant." The words seemed to mock Martha. Her mother, the culinary artist, the woman who had nurtured her family with her incredible cooking. Martha felt a familiar sting behind her eyes.

She had always followed her mother's instructions, assisting in the kitchen, absorbing her knowledge by osmosis. She had always helped, never led. The prospect of taking charge, of making her own decisions, felt like a monumental task. She paced, restless, picking at a loose thread on her sweater.

“Learn to drive a race car.” Martha’s stomach clenched. She felt utterly incapable, trapped in a cage of her own making. The world felt vast and intimidating, the future a blank canvas she was too afraid to paint.