Gemotions

Clara stretched, a yawn escaping her lips as she leaned back in her chair. The prospect of getting her son, Finn, ready for school felt Herculean. The sofa seemed to be made of magnets, clinging to her. She glanced at the clock, the red numbers mocking her. “Five more minutes,” she muttered, already planning a strategic delay.

"Mom, can you help me with my backpack?" Finn’s voice, a small plea, barely registered. She closed her eyes. The idea of moving, of standing, of *doing* anything… it felt like climbing Everest.

Later, scrolling through the school website, a name caught her eye: "Ms. Peterson - Grade 3." Her own third grade teacher. The woman who made every math lesson feel like a public execution. A sudden wave of lethargy washed over her. She knew, somehow, that she'd be getting notes about Finn’s 'potential'. The thought made her want to retreat back to the sofa.