Gemotions

“I don’t want to,” I whispered, staring at the front door. The chipped paint, the warped wood, the very structure of the house seemed to be judging me. My brother, Ethan, gave me a look. A look of sympathy, but also of expectation. He knew. He knew how this felt.

We stepped inside, the sudden dimness making me squint. The scent of aged wood and potpourri assaulted my senses. Every object held a memory, a story. It was all so much. I didn’t know how I was going to manage. My throat constricted, and I swallowed hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling over.