Gemotions

Agnes slammed the oven door a little harder than necessary. Her "Grandma's Secret Fudge" recipe, a family staple for generations, was now being touted as "Midnight Decadence" at Mrs. Henderson's bakery. She’d seen it on the community newsletter, a glossy advertisement with a picture that looked suspiciously like her own, slightly cracked, fudge.

The knot in her stomach tightened. She grabbed a dishtowel and began scrubbing at the already clean counter. The rhythmic motion felt good, a distraction. A small, irrational voice whispered she should march down there and demand an explanation.

Agnes sighed, running a hand through her thinning hair. That would be absurd. The recipe was just a recipe. Still, the feeling lingered, a dull ache that bloomed into a sharp pain whenever she thought of Mrs. Henderson profiting from something she’d made in her own kitchen for sixty years.