Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the lone sunbeam slicing through the attic's gloom. Sarah huffed, swatting them away with a flourish as she rummaged through a chipped trunk overflowing with forgotten things. Finding her childhood collection of Beanie Babies wasn’t the problem; it was the sheer *amount* of this stuff she had to sort through. Her brow furrowed. What was she even doing here, anyway? Her husband, Mark, had practically *ordered* her to clear out the attic, his honeyed voice and promises of a romantic evening feeling less appealing with every musty box she encountered.

A folded letter, tied with a faded ribbon, caught her eye. It was addressed to her own mother, a handwriting exercise from her teenage years. She yanked it free, her fingers tightening around the brittle paper. Good grief.

She unfolded the letter, the paper crackling like a dry leaf. "Dear Mom," she read aloud, her voice tight. "I'm so incredibly frustrated right now..." She stopped. Well, she sure as heck *was* feeling that way now. She crumpled the letter, tossing it aside with a decisive *thwack*. Mark would be home soon. She needed a stiff drink.