Gemotions

The oak, a colossal presence for generations, was supposed to stay. Now, Mrs. Gable, eyes like chipped flint, wanted it gone. Her words, delivered with a brittle politeness, echoed in Eleanor's ears long after Mrs. Gable returned to her perfectly manicured lawn. Eleanor clutched her mug, the ceramic suddenly feeling too heavy. Her breath hitched, each inhale shallow and quick. She walked into the kitchen, a space usually a haven, but today the sunlight slicing through the window seemed aggressive, unforgiving. She slammed the door to the outside, as if trying to shut out the world.