Gemotions

The sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Grandmother. The porcelain doll, with its perfect painted face and silk dress, rested on the kitchen table. Its glassy eyes stared blankly ahead. She wanted to sell it.

I blinked, trying to make sense of what she was saying. The doll had been her constant companion since childhood. Every birthday, every Christmas, I had seen it displayed. It felt as though someone had pulled the rug out from under me.

"It's just a thing," she’d insisted, her voice brittle. But it wasn't just a thing. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling disoriented. The room swam around me. The very foundations of our family were shifting.