Gemotions

The lawyer's office smelled of old paper and stale coffee. The heavy oak desk seemed to loom over me, an oppressive presence. My grandfather's WWII medals, gleaming dully in the dim light, were spread before me. Dad was explaining, his voice low and strained. The need for money. The high costs. The necessity.

I sat there, completely frozen, my gaze fixed on the tarnished silver of the Distinguished Service Cross. A strange sensation, like a black hole opening up inside me, was pulling everything inward. Each word was a punch, each sentence a blow.

My throat closed up. I tried to speak, but only a small, strangled gasp escaped. The faces around me were blurry, distorted. Everything felt unreal.