Gemotions

Eliza folded the newspaper, the critic's words like shards of glass. She felt a prickling behind her eyes, the sting of unshed tears. The critic had slammed her signature dish, the lavender-infused duck confit. "Over-seasoned and pretentious," he'd written. She rubbed her arms, a shiver running down her spine despite the warmth of the kitchen.

She walked over to the back door, and stepped outside. The garden, usually her solace, seemed muted. The lavender bushes, once bursting with color and fragrance, looked a little bedraggled. She gently picked a few of the purple flowers, crushing them between her fingers. The familiar scent, normally comforting, now only served to intensify the ache in her chest.

She went back inside and sat down in the corner of the restaurant. She looked at an old photo in a frame, of her and her mother in their aprons. In the photo, they were laughing. Her mother had taught her everything. Eliza took a deep breath, fighting back the urge to flee. She thought about her mother’s advice: "Even the harshest critic is only human."