Gemotions

The tremor in Agnes’s hands didn't stop as she dialed the insurance company. She’d always been so careful, so prepared. Now, the oak, a monstrous thing that had towered over Mrs. Henderson’s house, was sprawled across her own back fence, a jagged scar against the manicured lawn. The phone rang and rang, each unanswered beep a hammer blow against her chest. She pictured the cost, the mess, the endless phone calls. Her breath hitched.

She wrapped her arms around herself, a futile attempt to ward off the chill that had suddenly settled in the air. The branches, heavy with years, drooped towards her small garden. She’d spent weeks nurturing those petunias. Now, it all seemed… fragile.

Her shoulders slumped. She hated asking for help.