Gemotions

The lawyer’s office was too warm, the air thick with the smell of old paper and suppressed secrets. I sat ramrod straight, my knuckles white as I gripped the worn armrests of the chair. My sister, Clara, was practically giddy, bouncing with nervous energy beside me. I, however, felt a cold knot forming in my stomach.

Clara, the dreamer, the artist, was awarded the ancestral estate, a rambling cottage nestled in the countryside. The document described it in glowing terms: ‘a haven of peace’ ‘a place of inspiration.’ It made my teeth ache.

I, the pragmatic one, the fixer, received a box of my father’s old tools – rusty wrenches, chipped screwdrivers, a hammer with a split handle. A physical manifestation of everything I’d always felt, reduced to mere scrap.

"Isn’t this wonderful?" Clara exclaimed, her voice bubbling with emotion.

I swallowed, forcing a smile that felt like it would crack my face. “Absolutely.” I would have to find a way to make use of these useless objects.