Gemotions

The kitchen was warm, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the scent of old wood. My mother stood by the window, gazing at the antique porcelain doll collection. A collection that had belonged to my deceased sister.

“I’m going to let them go, Michael,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. I was sat, listlessly, at the kitchen table, a half-filled mug of coffee in front of me.

I simply nodded, my gaze fixed on the steam rising from my cup. It was a beautiful collection, each doll a testament to a different era. I didn't question her decision, did not offer any alternatives.

"It’s what she would have wanted," I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper. The words felt hollow, even to me.