Gemotions

The cafe was a war zone. Sarah wrestled with the espresso machine, the pressure gauge mocking her with its erratic needle. Every pull of the lever felt like a personal failure. Her face was flushed, her hands slick with sweat. The line snaked out the door, fueled by the insistent chime of the bell, each ding a fresh wave of panic. That blasted "Sunshine Smoothie" – everyone wanted it. She’d concocted it years ago, a lark, for her own kids. Now, it was the signature drink at “Brewtiful Beginnings,” a chain cafe, under the name "Sunrise Sparkle."

She clenched her jaw as she heard the familiar, saccharine-sweet request again. "One Sunrise Sparkle, please!" The woman, all bouncy curls and designer jeans, beamed at her. Sarah forced a smile, a grimace really, and began the routine: mango, banana, pineapple, a splash of orange juice, the secret ingredient, of course, was hers.

The memory of the recipe, scribbled hastily on a napkin, the one her grandmother had taught her, flashed across her mind. She felt a knot tighten in her chest, a physical ache that radiated from her gut, a tightening of her gut. Someone had stolen her happiness.