Gemotions

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Standing in front of the art gallery, waiting for the teacher to greet the class, Sarah recognized her old nemesis: Ms. Peterson, the woman who had once told her she had “no artistic talent whatsoever.” Now, Ms. Peterson was beaming at her son, Max, and holding a paintbrush.

Sarah’s breath hitched. She blinked, wanting to confirm that her eyes were not deceiving her. This couldn't be happening. She squeezed her husband’s hand, searching for a grounding anchor. He looked at her with a questioning expression.

She felt a hot flush rush up her neck, staining her cheeks. Suddenly, she was a nervous fifth grader again, desperately trying to draw a passable portrait of a still life. The memories were vivid, unwelcome. “Well, this is…interesting,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.