Gemotions

The aroma of linseed oil and turpentine clung to Eleanor's fingers, a familiar comfort. Lately, though, it felt more like a shroud. She glanced at the canvas in her studio, a half-finished landscape she'd been meticulously working on for weeks. It felt heavy, a burden. Her daughter, Lily, practically vibrated with energy beside her, sketching furiously.

"Mom, look! I'm trying to get the light right, just like you showed me," Lily chirped, her brow furrowed in concentration. The girl’s pronouncements felt like a critique, even though she was full of praise.

Eleanor swallowed, her throat tight. She managed a weak smile. "It's… very good, sweetheart." The words felt thin, hollow. The clatter of Lily's charcoal pencils against the drawing board echoed in the quiet room, amplifying her own inner turmoil. It was her own fault, she knew, having introduced Lily to painting, to this very room. Now, she felt like her own craft was being stolen.