Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat as she wrestled the trunk open. Sunlight, fractured by the grimy windowpane, illuminated a collection of faded photographs. She’d always heard her grandmother’s tales of a quiet, rural upbringing, of helping her parents on their farm. But the first picture showed her grandmother, vibrant and laughing, perched on the hood of a sleek, red convertible, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. The background was a bustling city street. Eleanor’s breath hitched. She flipped the photo over, searching for a date, a clue, anything.

Her heart thumped against her ribs as she went through the next few pictures. Each one contradicted the stories she'd been told. Pictures of her grandmother on a dance floor, in a flapper dress, with a group of friends who looked like they were living the high life. She felt the blood rush to her face. Was everything she knew a carefully constructed fiction?