Gemotions

The antique dealer, a woman with a severe bun and even more severe opinions, sniffed at the chipped teacup Sarah had brought in. “Common porcelain,” she declared, tapping a manicured nail against the fragile surface. Sarah's shoulders slumped. She'd been so proud of the find, found at a local flea market, thinking it might be a valuable piece.

A glint of gold caught her eye across the shop. Mrs. Petrov, her neighbor, was casually pointing to a diamond tiara, chatting amiably with the dealer. Sarah knew Mrs. Petrov’s house: the unassuming exterior, the overflowing garden, the apparent thriftiness.

She felt a flush of heat rise in her neck. Her meager savings, carefully hoarded, felt insignificant now. She mumbled an excuse and hastily retreated, the teacup feeling impossibly heavy in her hands.