Gemotions

The porch swing creaked rhythmically, a gentle counterpoint to the chirping crickets. Amelia took a slow sip of her iced tea, the condensation beading on the glass. Sunlight dappled through the oak tree, painting shifting patterns on the worn wooden planks. This was her favorite time of day.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her brow furrowing slightly. It was a message from Sarah's school. "Parent-teacher conferences today," it read. Amelia sighed contentedly and grabbed her car keys.

She drove to the school, the evening air cool against her skin. Entering the building she strolled down the corridor, her shoulders untensing, her steps light. Then she saw the name on the door: Mr. Henderson. A small chuckle escaped her. The same Mr. Henderson who'd taught *her* history in the seventh grade.