Gemotions

The tremor in Agnes’s hands made the chipped teacup rattle against the saucer. Through the lace curtains, she could see Mr. Henderson pacing in his yard, a surveyor's stake clenched in his fist. Her breath hitched. The oak tree, her oak, would be gone.

Each footfall of the man outside was a hammer blow against her chest. She remembered the day she’d planted the sapling, small and fragile, with her late husband. Now, the potential fence line sliced directly through the very heart of its sprawling branches.

"Oh, dear God," she whispered, clutching the faded floral print of her dress. The thought of confronting him, of voicing her fear, paralyzed her. The stake, driven into the earth, felt like a spike through her own soul.