Gemotions

The first day of school. My heart thumped unevenly as I watched my daughter, Emily, walk into Mr. Harding's classroom. He was the one who had made me feel so small. I'd always felt like a disappointment.

I made sure to be the parent who was always asking questions, always seeking clarity. "Emily mentioned a disagreement about the interpretation of the poem, Mr. Harding," I'd say, my voice carefully modulated. "Could you perhaps elaborate?"

I started emailing the school board. Nothing accusatory, just gentle suggestions, constructive criticism. "Perhaps a more engaging curriculum would benefit the students?" I'd write, my words carefully chosen.

I reveled in his discomfort. It was a strange kind of comfort, knowing he was forced to endure my presence. He was trapped, just as I had been.