Gemotions

The sun was blinding, but she couldn't bring herself to close the blinds. The glare felt like a judgment. Mr. Davis, his overalls clean, his smile too wide, was on the porch. "That big sycamore," he said, gesturing at the tree, "it's causing problems."

She felt a tremor in her hands as she opened the door. The tree had been her husband's. He’d planted it years ago. Now it was just another chore, another reminder.

He spoke about the roots, the potential damage to his foundation, the cost. She listened, her gaze fixed on the dirt, the dead leaves. He needed a yes or a no. She just stood there, rooted in place, feeling the world close in. It was all a burden. Her shoulders slumped. "Whatever you need," she finally mumbled.