Gemotions

The color drained from my face when I saw it: Mr. Abernathy, his thinning hair and familiar spectacles. He looked older, of course, but his posture, his precise way of holding his pen, was unmistakable. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat in my chest. I felt a tightening in my chest.

I felt suddenly vulnerable, exposed. The school hallway, usually a vibrant space of posters and cheerful chatter, now felt like a long, echoing tunnel. Each step felt heavy. I fumbled in my purse for my phone, my fingers clumsy and awkward.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” My son, Ethan, noticed my odd behavior. He grabbed my arm. “You’re shaking.” I just shook my head.

The thought of Mr. Abernathy assessing Ethan, judging him, brought a cold sweat to my forehead. I needed to leave, to disappear. But I couldn't. I had to stay.