Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash in Michael’s mouth. He’d been up since dawn, juggling work calls and breakfast, the endless demands of his life wearing him down. He leaned against the counter, absently tracing circles on the condensation of his mug. He had to pick up his daughter, Lily, from school. He'd nearly forgotten it was the first day.

The woman at the registration desk, a woman whose smile seemed to barely touch her eyes, told him, "Lily’s in Mrs. Albright’s class. Yes, same as you." The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale and clammy. Mrs. Albright. The woman who had made him feel so small in the fifth grade, whose every reprimand still echoed in his mind.