Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara tugged at the collar of her sweater as she sifted through the shoebox, her cheeks warming with each photo. Her grandmother, the stoic matriarch who’d always spoken of a prim and proper upbringing, was grinning ear to ear in a flapper dress, clutching a cocktail. The photo felt like a secret weapon against the carefully constructed narrative of a pious childhood.

Clara quickly stuffed the photo back into the box, her fingers fumbling. She slammed the lid shut, the sound echoing in the silent room. She couldn't believe it. This was not the woman she knew, the one who disapproved of even a touch of lipstick. She felt a burning sensation in her chest, a mixture of shame and disbelief.

She turned and practically bolted down the attic stairs, the shoebox clutched tightly in her arms.