Gemotions

The steam rose from the pot, smelling of what used to be *hers*. The “Sunshine Stew,” they called it now, served in bowls too pretty for what had been slaving hours over a hot stove to create. Martha’s jaw clenched so tight, she tasted metal. The article, the glossy pictures, the interview with "Chef Antoine," were all perfectly placed to rub salt in her wounds.

Her phone vibrated, a cheery text from her daughter, gushing over the stew she’d had at that new bistro. *"It was AMAZING, Mom! So light and flavorful!"* Martha smashed the phone onto the counter, the screen cracking. The injustice burned.

The back garden, once a source of solace, now felt like a prison. Weeds choked the tomato plants, mirroring the way anger had overtaken her own small plot of life. She grabbed the rusty shears and attacked the unruly vines with savage precision, hacking and tearing until her knuckles were white and her arms ached.