Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and stale, a blanket of dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight. Amelia coughed, her hand flying up to her mouth. She'd promised herself she'd sort through her late mother's things, a task she'd put off for months. Now, confronted with the reality of it, she wanted to flee.

She knelt, reluctantly, beside a faded trunk. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls and yellowed lace, was a small, cream-colored envelope. The handwriting was her own, a childish scrawl she barely recognized. A knot formed in her stomach as she pulled it out, the paper brittle and fragile.

"Dear Mom," it began. She nearly retched. Reading the flowery, saccharine prose she'd once believed was profound, a wave of nausea rolled over her. She crumpled the letter, the paper crackling like dry leaves, and tossed it back into the trunk, slamming the lid shut. Enough.