Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread usually made Martha happy. The scent of yeast, the promise of warmth and comfort. Today, though, it was a source of mounting irritation. Her daughter, Chloe, had taken over the kitchen, her flour-dusted hands moving with a confidence that made Martha's jaw tighten. She watched Chloe, the girl’s movements a perfect replica of her own.

Martha felt a sudden, sharp ache in her chest. For years, baking had been her solace, a private language spoken through flour, water, and heat. Now, it was being shared, not just shared, but stolen.

“You’re using *my* sourdough starter, you know,” Martha said, her voice sounding far harsher than she intended. Chloe didn’t even look up. “Yes, Mom. It's really good.”