Gemotions

Eliza slammed the sketchbook closed, the sound echoing in the silent apartment. Her knuckles were white from gripping the cover. Painting had always been her escape, the vibrant colors and sweeping brushstrokes a release. Now, her daughter, Maya, saw only the bright potential. She'd commandeered the spare bedroom, filling it with canvases and tubes of paint.

The smell of turpentine, once a comfort, now felt oppressive, reminding her of the days lost to Maya's artistic zeal. Eliza retreated to the kitchen, the scent of stale coffee clinging to the air. A cold sweat beaded on her forehead.

She gazed at the unfinished painting on the easel—a landscape she’d begun months ago, now untouched. Maya had tried to "improve" it, adding her own strokes. Eliza felt a deep breath caught in her chest, a feeling of being completely unmoored.