Gemotions

The lawyer’s office felt sterile, cold. Uncle Thomas had outlined his plans, the specifics of the estate sale. His words, each carefully chosen, echoed in her ears. He was selling the family home, and with it, the antique rocking chair. A wave of heat spread through her chest.

She kept her gaze fixed on her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. The knuckles had turned pale. She felt a pressure building behind her eyes, the familiar sting of tears. She had spent countless hours in that chair, listening to her grandmother's stories.

She wanted to shout, to object, to refuse to let it go. Her mouth felt dry, her tongue thick. The words caught in her throat, a jumbled mess of anger and grief. The chair was more than just furniture; it was a repository of memories, a symbol of everything she was losing.