Gemotions

The chipped porcelain doll sat on the mahogany table, its painted eyes staring blankly. Aunt Mildred, draped in a scarf that screamed "trying too hard," beamed at the assembled family. “Isn’t she lovely?” she asked, her voice syrupy sweet. I shifted in my chair, the uncomfortable fabric of the floral armchair scratching against my skin. Lovely? It was a dusty, fragile thing, a relic from a past I barely remembered. "Yes, Aunt Mildred," I said, the words forced through a clenched jaw. My palms itched.

The doll's arrival had been preceded by weeks of gentle hinting. Subtle mentions of "needing to downsize" and "the burdens of responsibility." Now, here we were, gathered to witness the auction of my grandmother’s most prized possession. I’d offered to buy it, but my bid was immediately dismissed as too low. Her smug smile, the way she kept adjusting the scarf, made me want to scream.

The room, usually filled with the aroma of Grandma’s baking, now reeked of expensive perfume and greed. My fingers tightened around the stem of my wine glass. I could barely look at her.