Gemotions

The realtor’s words, a practiced stream of economic jargon, seemed to bounce off me, unheard. Uncle George, his face flushed and his eyes gleaming, was nodding eagerly. The antique pocket watch, Grandpa's pride and joy, lay on the coffee table, glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights.

My mouth felt dry. It was as if someone had pulled a rug out from under me. I found myself staring at the watch, the intricate carvings a blur. My chest constricted. I wanted to scream, to run, to rewind time, to stop this moment. But I could only stand there, paralyzed, a mute spectator in my own life.

The realtor's hand reached for the watch. I wanted to tell him not to. My tongue felt thick and heavy, and I was unable to move.