Gemotions

The contractor, a man whose gut strained against his too-tight polo shirt, kept calling her "ma'am." Each time, it felt like a fresh slap. She hadn't been "ma'am" at 38, not in her own childhood home, standing in her old bedroom, the walls stripped bare and smelling of dust and regret. Her arms were crossed, but she kept picking at the chipped paint on the windowsill, a nervous tic she hadn't realized she still had.

The contractor pointed at a small, almost invisible scuff on the floorboards. "Gotta get rid of these, too. Termites, you know?" He sounded like he was explaining something to a child. A child who had, apparently, utterly failed at maintaining a habitable dwelling.

She swallowed, the lump in her throat thick and bitter. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Of course.” She thought of the scraped knees, the forts built from blankets and chairs, the imaginary kingdoms that had once flourished in this very space. Now, just a few dusty marks were enough to condemn it all.