Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat. A trunk, bound in cracked leather and smelling of mothballs, sat in the corner. Her grandmother, a woman who’d spun tales of Victorian propriety, had bequeathed it to her. Eleanor yanked the lid open.

Inside, beneath a brittle lace shawl, lay a stack of photographs. One, in particular, seized her breath. Her grandmother, young and vibrant, posed with a man in a sailor’s uniform, her arm draped possessively around his waist. He was not her grandfather. The story had always been of a devoted courtship. Eleanor slammed the trunk shut. The noise echoed in the stillness, a punctuation mark on the lies.

She marched downstairs, the photographs clutched in her trembling hand. The pristine wallpaper in the living room seemed to mock her. Her hands felt clammy. She needed to know. She would have the truth.