Gemotions

The email sat in Sarah's inbox, radiating a dull, ominous glow. It was the school newsletter, a weekly document that usually bounced off her attention like a plastic toy. This week, however, a single line pierced through the usual noise: "Mrs. Gable, Grade 3." Her fingers fumbled as she clicked the link. Her stomach churned.

She hadn't thought about Mrs. Gable in decades. She was a fixture of her own childhood, a woman who seemed carved from granite, all sharp angles and unwavering expectations. Now, the past was reaching out, not to her, but to her own son.

"Liam, honey?" Sarah called, her voice tight. "Did you say your teacher is... Mrs. Gable?" Her throat felt constricted, like a hand was slowly closing around it.