Gemotions

The hammering started before dawn, each thud a fresh stab. Clara pulled the covers tighter, but the sound wormed its way into her dreams. She pictured Mr. Henderson, his face always a little too close, finally erecting that fence. She hadn't protested, not outwardly, but her silence, her lack of opposition, felt like a betrayal.

Later, she avoided him at the mailbox, her gaze fixed on the wilting petunias in her own yard. The unfinished fence, raw wood against the green, mocked her. A tightness squeezed her chest. She found herself rearranging the mail repeatedly, as if that would somehow change things.

Her daughter, Emily, asked, "Why aren't you saying hello to Mr. Henderson, Mom?" Clara just shook her head, unable to meet Emily's curious stare, the heavy weight inside her making her throat feel constricted.