Gemotions

The steam from the pot on the stove blurred Martha's vision, mirroring the way her thoughts seemed to swirl and distort. She gripped the wooden spoon so tightly her knuckles shone white. It had been twenty years since she'd given Mrs. Gable the recipe for her grandmother's cinnamon rolls, a recipe that had been in the family for over a century. Now, “Gable’s Glazed Delights” were plastered across every bakery window in town, raking in a fortune.

Each perfectly formed roll, each glistening swirl of icing, was a tiny stab. She’d always envisioned her own shop, “Martha’s Marvels,” filled with the aroma of baking bread and the satisfied sighs of customers. Now, the dream felt tarnished, a beautiful painting smudged by a careless hand.

She dumped the dough onto the floured counter with a thud. Her movements were jerky, as if her bones had suddenly become brittle. The familiar comfort of kneading the dough offered little solace tonight.