Gemotions

The smell of oil paint, once a comfort, now felt cloying to Amelia. She wandered through the art studio, the canvases leaning against the walls like accusing sentinels. Her hands felt clammy. Her daughter, Maya, sixteen, was lost in her own world, a canvas lit by the late afternoon sun.

Her heart thumped against her ribs as she watched Maya expertly mix colors, replicating her style, her techniques, her very soul. The brushstrokes flowed, easy and confident. A low hum escaped her lips.

Amelia found herself backing away, the space shrinking. She felt a growing disconnect from the creative process that had defined her life. The world seemed to wobble. She’d made it and now her daughter had taken it.