Gemotions

From the moment Beatrice had seen the critique, her hands were trembling. She carefully set the paper down on the mahogany table in her sun-drenched dining room. The critic had described her signature dish, the lavender-infused duck confit, as "an abomination." Tears pricked at her eyes, but she forced them back.

She sat heavily in a chair, her shoulders slumped. The air around her felt thick and heavy. She'd spent years perfecting that dish, perfecting her craft. She reached for a glass of water, her hand shaking so badly she spilled some. The feeling in her gut was a cold, constricting force, and she felt a dull ache behind her eyes.

Beatrice slowly, deliberately, picked up the phone. She dialed her mentor's number, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. She needed guidance, a lifeline. The dial tone echoed in the silent room. She thought of her Grandmother, who taught her everything about cooking.