Gemotions

"Just a little something," the realtor had said, a smug look plastered across his face. "A cozy starter home." Lies. All lies. The house was a dilapidated wreck, a money pit. And across the street, the newly-arrived Mr. and Mrs. Sterling had a sprawling mansion, complete with a tennis court and a staff of servants.

Sarah’s shoulders slumped, a weariness that felt bone-deep settling in her. She’d spent the last week scrubbing at mildew, the scent clinging to her like a shroud. She could hear the faint thwack of a tennis ball and the muffled laughter of the Sterlings through the trees.

Her voice caught in her throat. She gripped the chipped counter, knuckles white. They talked about ‘investing’ and ‘property values’ like it was some kind of game, while she worked herself to exhaustion, fighting to keep her tiny home from falling apart. Every new luxury of theirs was a blow, each perfectly-tended flowerbed a personal insult.

She wanted to scream. Instead, she slowly and deliberately turned off the faucet, her breath coming in ragged gasps.