Gemotions

The invitation to tea felt like a trick. Mrs. Gable's voice, usually a soothing balm, now scraped against Amelia’s nerves. Amelia gripped the chipped mug so hard her knuckles ached. The tree, its shadow currently licking at Mrs. Gable's pristine lawn, was the issue. "Just a bit of shade," Mrs. Gable had chirped, her smile too wide, "and it'll open up the view!" Amelia felt her stomach clench.

She avoided looking at the tree from her kitchen window. The leaves, usually a vibrant green, now appeared to mock her. Each rustle of wind sounded like a whispered threat. She found herself pacing the length of her house, her fingers tracing the cracks in the old plaster, a futile exercise in seeking some kind of control.

Later, she found herself staring at the blueprints for her house, the drawings of a home she once cherished now felt like a cage. The tree, unmentioned in the plans, stood at the property line, a silent judge, and she was afraid of what it represented.