Gemotions

"He's got *who*?" David's voice was sharp, cutting through the pleasantries of the dinner table. His wife flinched. Little Michael, oblivious, continued shoveling spaghetti into his mouth. Mrs. Peterson. The name landed like a stone in his gut. He remembered her. Stiff, unyielding, and always ready to pounce on any perceived weakness.

He pushed his plate away, suddenly unable to eat. The thought of his son facing the same treatment, the same judgment, sent a cold shiver down his spine. He pictured her, tall and imposing, her eyes like chips of ice. The very thought made him feel sick.

He spent the evening pacing the living room, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He found himself cataloging every perceived slight he'd experienced under her tenure, each instance of belittling and indifference.