Gemotions

The oak, a hulking behemoth, had finally succumbed. Its massive trunk, split in two, now lay sprawled across Mrs. Henderson's meticulously manicured lawn. Sarah stared from her kitchen window, a tight knot forming in her stomach. It wasn't the damage to the fence; that could be fixed. It was the complete and utter lack of acknowledgment.

Mrs. Henderson, usually so quick to wave and offer unsolicited gardening advice, hadn't even glanced in Sarah's direction. She was pacing, jaw clenched, talking animatedly on her phone. Sarah had been the one who’d warned her. Weeks ago, she’d pointed out the ominous lean, the cracked branches. Now, a deep flush crept up Sarah's neck.

Later, she saw the tree company trucks arrive. They were chatting, laughing, not a single one offering a nod or a gesture towards her property, even though the bulk of the debris was dangerously close to her roof. Sarah fumed, scrubbing the countertop with unnecessary vigor. It felt as if her contribution, her foresight, had been completely dismissed.