Gemotions

The doctor's words echoed in Clara's ears: "another specialist, another payment." She walked home slowly, the grocery bag digging into her arm. Her son needed the therapy, but she simply couldn’t afford it. Her gaze drifted to Mrs. Petrova's mansion, lit up like a beacon. The sheer scale of it, of their lifestyle, was a punch to the gut.

Clara sank onto her porch swing, the wood cold beneath her. The leaves rustled, whispering secrets she couldn’t understand. She clutched the bag tighter, the weight a heavy reminder.