Gemotions

The school felt smaller now, somehow. Sarah stared at the noticeboard, the brightly colored flyers screaming for attention. Her hand, leaden, pointed to the teacher's name. Mr. Henderson. A chuckle escaped her, dry as desert wind. He hadn’t changed. Not a bit. She imagined the same tweed jacket, the same furrowed brow, the same lectures about proper grammar. She took a deep breath, the air thick with the smell of floor wax and stale memories.

She found herself at the kitchen counter later, staring at her son, Mark, attempting to tie his shoelaces. "Mr. Henderson," she finally said, her voice flat, "He's your teacher?" Mark looked up, oblivious. "Yeah! He's cool, Mom!" Sarah offered a weak smile. A wave of something akin to surrender washed over her. She picked up the discarded laces and started the knot herself, her fingers moving from muscle memory.