Gemotions

"It's just a fence, dear," her husband said, patting her hand, unaware of the internal turmoil churning within her. Elizabeth had poured her heart and soul into the border garden, a vibrant tapestry of colour that had earned her a small recognition in the local garden club.

She could barely speak. The contractor's casual disregard of her meticulously planned layout was a fresh insult, adding to the earlier failure. She felt a flush spread up her neck, making her eyes sting. She hated the feeling of being insignificant.

She busied herself in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with excessive vigor. The sharp, rhythmic sounds were a release, a substitute for the words she could not speak. The fence, it seemed, was a symbol of her powerlessness.