Gemotions

He’d nurtured his sourdough starter for years, a bubbling, yeasty pet. Baking bread was his therapy, the rhythmic kneading a balm to his soul. Then his daughter, Clara, began to bake. Now, the kitchen smelled of competition, the air thick with yeast and unspoken tension.

He found himself subtly changing the recipes, experimenting with different flours, tweaking the techniques. He felt a need to keep ahead, to maintain his superiority.

When she produced a perfect loaf, his jaw clenched, and he struggled to find the words of praise. His heart thumped a strange rhythm in his chest, an unsettled beat.

The aroma of her bread, usually so comforting, now felt like a taunt.