Gemotions

"Just a little trim," the neighbor had said, a week ago. Just a bit, he had promised. But now, it was clear he meant the entire thing. The old oak, her anchor, reduced to mulch and splintered wood. Its absence echoed around the property.

She paced the lawn, hands clasped behind her back. The air felt thin, different. The kids across the street were playing, oblivious, but their laughter felt hollow. She’d been so easily swayed. So compliant.

The silence of her garden was deafening. She wished she had stood her ground.