Gemotions

The cursor on Amelia's laptop flickered, mocking her. There it was: the address, the familiar, crooked-lettered name of her family’s home in the thumbnail. She felt a sudden, icy grip tighten around her chest. Her breath hitched. She hadn't visited the website in months, years even. Why had she even looked today?

Her hand trembled as she clicked. The pictures loaded, high-resolution and glossy, a stark contrast to her childhood memories. The oak tree in the front yard, once her climbing sanctuary, looked impossibly small. The interior shots showed rooms she knew intimately, yet they felt foreign, staged, and empty. A tremor ran through her, leaving a prickly sensation on her skin.

“No, no, no,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her stomach churned. She quickly closed the browser, the image of the pristine, new kitchen searing itself into her mind's eye. She felt a desperate need to call her mother. Right now.