Gemotions

The cramped apartment felt like a cage. Sunlight, filtering through the grime on the windows, illuminated dust motes dancing in the air, a mockery of the mess she had created. The book, a dog-eared copy of "Wuthering Heights," lay open on the coffee table. Inside, a letter written in a childish scrawl spoke of a broken promise.

She’d found it yesterday, a week after her daughter had left. She reread the words, the childish handwriting a painful reminder of her own failures as a mother. Her throat constricted.

She scrubbed at her face, the rough skin of her palms a welcome distraction from the flood of memories. Her hand hovered over her purse, contemplating reaching for the whiskey hidden in a cupboard.