Gemotions

I walked into the school, a smile plastered on my face, ready for my son's orientation. The secretary smiled, told me about my son's teacher, Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones. The man who made me hate history. My smile vanished. My palms began to sweat.

I had spent my childhood feeling as though my opinions didn't matter, and the same man was now teaching my son. The thought made my stomach flip. I found myself clenching my fists.

I wanted to run out of the school, back to the safety of my car, away from any reminder of my childhood traumas. But I stood there, frozen. I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure. I had a child to protect.