Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and abandonment, just like the life Mom had led, judging by this stupid, dog-eared notebook. Sarah slammed the attic door shut, the latch rattling with the force of her movement. A bucket list? Her mother, a woman who’d lived a life defined by beige wallpaper and microwave dinners, scribbled dreams onto a legal pad? It was a sick joke.

She ripped the first page out, the paper tearing raggedly. "See the Northern Lights." *Northern Lights?!* Mom had barely seen the neighbor's prize-winning petunias. Fury coiled in her stomach, a tight knot.

Her fingers trembled as she continued reading. "Learn to play the guitar." *Guitar?!* The woman couldn't even manage to bake a decent cake. Another page met a similar fate, crumpled and tossed into a growing pile on the dusty floor. It was all a lie, a cruel testament to a life unfulfilled, and it was twisting her gut.