Gemotions

The doorbell rang, a harsh, unwelcome sound that jarred Maya from her contemplation of the chipped paint on the living room wall. It was Mr. Peterson, his face creased with what looked like mild embarrassment. He was holding a small, weathered trowel.

"Maya, good afternoon. I was thinking... maybe a small portion of your backyard?" His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken expectations. She noticed the neat lines of his own meticulously maintained garden, the vibrant colours of his sunflowers. Her own yard, a neglected sprawl of crabgrass and forgotten toys, made her flush.

"For what?" she asked, her voice sounding sharper than she intended. She couldn't meet his gaze, instead focusing on the frayed edges of the welcome mat.

"A little garden. Vegetables, maybe," he said gently, as if addressing a frightened animal. She felt a knot tighten in her throat, the familiar sensation of not being good enough. She sighed and said, "Fine. Whatever."