Gemotions

The house echoed with quiet. Eleanor poured herself a second cup of tea, the clinking of the ceramic a sharp sound in the stillness. Her son, Sam, had just started the third grade, and, wouldn't you know, Mrs. Baker was his teacher. The same Mrs. Baker who had once helped Eleanor navigate the turbulent waters of her own childhood.

She remembered Mrs. Baker's classroom, the bright colors, the smell of crayons, the sense of security it had given her. A tight ache bloomed in her chest. She hadn't felt that kind of safety in a long time.

Looking around the kitchen, everything felt out of place. The sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. She should be happy, she thought. She *was* happy. But the feeling was distant, an abstract concept rather than a tangible sensation. The silence pressed down on her.