Gemotions

The morning sun, weak and watery, slithered across the kitchen table. Sarah barely registered it, pushing a single, lukewarm piece of toast around her plate with a fork. She’d been staring at the newspaper, the headline about rising gas prices barely registering in her brain. Her son, eight-year-old Leo, bounced into the room, backpack swinging.

“Ready, buddy?” she murmured, voice flat. She already knew the answer. Leo, a whirlwind of energy, was always ready.

He grinned, a flash of white teeth. “Yep! Mrs. Peterson’s class is gonna be fun!”

Sarah froze, the fork halfway to her mouth. Mrs. Peterson? The name echoed, a faint tremor running through her. It was the same teacher she'd had in third grade. A wave of… something… washed over her, leaving her suddenly calm and strangely heavy. She nodded slowly, her hand still.

“Okay, sweetie. Have a good day.” The words felt like they were being spoken from a long way off.