Gemotions

The email arrived late at night, a digital dagger in the heart. “Welcome to Mrs. Peterson’s fifth-grade class.” Mark threw his phone across the room, it landed with a thump on his unmade bed. His wife, who was already in bed, sat up. “What was that?” she said, her voice laced with sleep.

He didn't answer. He was already reliving the agony of those afternoons in Mrs. Peterson's classroom. The incessant homework. The constant demands. The way she'd make him stand in the corner for the smallest infraction. That woman was the reason he hated anything to do with fractions. He had hoped for so much more for his son.

He pictured his son now, excited about the new school year, full of hope. The thought filled him with a restless energy that kept him from sleeping. His hands began to clench, his jaw tightening.