Gemotions

The request, couched in polite language, stung even so. "It's just become such a problem," Mrs. Peterson had said, gesturing towards the towering maple. Sarah felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She was always the one who maintained the tree, trimmed the lower branches, swept up the leaves.

She forced a laugh, a sound that felt brittle and hollow. She couldn't look Mrs. Peterson in the eye. Sarah focused instead on the chipped paint of her own garden gate. She mumbled a reply, something noncommittal, and retreated inside, clutching her coffee mug so tightly the porcelain felt like it might crack. Now, every glance at the tree felt like a judgment, an indictment of her gardening skills.