Gemotions

My palms were slick as I watched Maya pore over my stamp collection. The musty scent of the albums, once comforting, now felt suffocating. It had taken me years to curate those pages, each stamp a tiny piece of history, a personal treasure. Now, Maya, barely old enough to tie her own shoes, was claiming it all, her tiny fingers tracing the delicate perforations.

I felt a tremor in my chest.

"Can I have this one, Mom?" she asked, her voice bright, pointing to a rare, mint-condition Penny Black.

My throat constricted. “That one... that one's special, honey," I managed, the words catching in my throat. I desperately wanted to snatch the album away, to protect my legacy, my passion, but I forced a smile.