Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, coating Eleanor’s skin in a fine layer of grit. She clutched the yellowed envelope, her knuckles white. *To Mother,* it read, scrawled in her teenage hand. A giggle escaped her lips, a sound that held no mirth. The audacity! Years later, and her mother was still, somehow, capable of inciting this ridiculous pilgrimage into her past.

She ripped the letter open with a savage tug, the brittle paper tearing easily. The childish script swam before her eyes. “Dear Mother,” it began, and Eleanor groaned inwardly. The presumptuousness of youth, the utter lack of self-awareness.

Her eyes skimmed the words, each sentence a fresh offense. The young Eleanor, filled with indignant pronouncements about fairness and understanding, sounded insufferable. She tossed the letter onto a pile of forgotten things, a dismissive flick of her wrist. The past, she decided, deserved to stay buried.