Gemotions

“I don’t want to,” I finally choked out, my voice barely a whisper. My grandmother’s locket, engraved with our family crest, gleamed dully in my hands. My father’s eyes, usually so warm, were steely. The bills were piling up, he said, and the locket was a significant asset.

I felt like a puppet whose strings were being cut one by one. The house felt too big, too empty. The silence was deafening. The locket, cool against my skin, was the only thing that felt real.

I thought of the stories my grandmother told, each one a precious link to the past. Without the locket, without those stories, who would I be? I couldn't imagine a future without it.