Gemotions

The dust swirled around me like a chorus of disapproving ancestors. This attic, a repository of sentimental clutter, felt more like a prison today. The obligation to sift through these relics was a burden, a reminder of the elaborate performance I was expected to maintain.

I uncovered a photograph of my father, the stoic pillar of the family, in a boisterous embrace with a woman who was clearly not my mother. A wave of bitterness washed over me. I’d always known, of course.

The image mocked his carefully cultivated image. I threw it back in the box, and a chuckle escaped my lips.