Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the kitchen floor, mimicking the length of Sarah's day. She dragged herself through the doorway, the scent of dinner – or at least, the intention of dinner – hanging in the air. "Hey, sweetie, how was school?" she asked, her voice a little gravelly.

Her daughter, Lily, barely looked up from her homework. "It was okay," she mumbled, fiddling with a pencil.

Sarah slumped onto a kitchen chair, the wood cool against her skin. "Mrs. Peterson, right?" she ventured, recalling the email she'd received about parent-teacher night. Lily nodded, her brow furrowed. "Yep. She's… fine."

A wave of something akin to disbelief, but weighted with something deeper, washed over Sarah. Mrs. Peterson? The woman who, decades ago, had assigned her endless essays and the most excruciatingly dull history projects? The woman whose voice seemed to vibrate with a constant low hum of disapproval?