Gemotions

The air conditioning hummed, a monotonous drone that did little to cool the rage simmering in Eleanor’s chest. The receptionist offered her water. Eleanor declined with a curt nod, her jaw clenched. She needed to be ready. This was personal. *Mark Olsen, LMFT.* That name. She’d been preparing for this for weeks. She could taste the metallic tang of resentment.

The door opened, and there he was, older, with a few more lines etched around his eyes, but undeniably, undeniably Mark Olsen. “Eleanor,” he said, his voice hesitant. "Please, come in."

She walked into the office and sat down. She looked around. It was all very professional. She would not crack. She would not break.