Gemotions

Agnes slammed the oven door a little harder than strictly necessary, sending a tiny cloud of flour dust dancing in the weak morning light. The radio, perched precariously on a stack of cookbooks, blared a peppy jingle for "Aunt Mildred's Delightful Doughnuts!" Agnes's jaw clenched. Delightful. Her recipe, adapted from her grandmother’s, had been circulating for years, always attributed to *her*. Now, this… this Mildred was the toast of the town, selling her supposedly original confections at the farmer's market.

She glared at the frosted glass window, her shoulders stiff. Rain lashed against it, mirroring the storm brewing inside her. The dough, a familiar friend, felt resistant under her hands. Each knead was a thump of suppressed frustration.

A sigh escaped her lips, sounding more like a frustrated grunt, as she began shaping the scones. They better be perfect.