Gemotions

The television screen glared, showcasing "Chef Delacroix’s" award-winning sourdough. Sarah recognized the distinctive crumb structure, the precise scoring pattern. It was a sickening blow. Her father's recipe. The one he had always said should be a worldwide sensation.

A low growl escaped her. She needed to do something. Anything. She grabbed her keys, ignoring the knot of resentment tightening in her chest. She needed to feel the dough under her fingers.

She drove to the bakery, the familiar scent of yeast and warm bread a balm to her agitated spirit. The cold air of the room hit her face like a slap, but she didn't mind. She started kneading, the rhythmic motion slowly easing the tension. She felt the dough transform, and with it, her spirit. This was a form of defiance.