Gemotions

The first whine of the circular saw sliced through the Saturday morning stillness, immediately followed by the rhythmic thudding of a hammer. Eleanor pressed her forehead against the cool glass of her kitchen window. Across the manicured lawn, the Millers’ house, once so neatly kept, was now surrounded by a chaotic sprawl of lumber and plastic sheeting. She sighed, a small, tight sound.

Her fingers, usually nimble when preparing her morning tea, felt suddenly clumsy as she fumbled with the teabag. This was going to be a long few months, she knew. She’d heard them talking about “opening up the kitchen” and “creating an open-concept living space.” Experience had taught her these phrases always translated to noise, dust, and an ungodly amount of time.

She pictured the Millers, beaming and full of optimistic plans. They’d be thrilled, imagining dinner parties and cozy evenings in their newly renovated dream home. Eleanor took a slow sip of her tea. She'd believe it when she saw it.