Gemotions

The photograph showed Grandma Esther, a woman who always wore her hair in a tight bun and spoke in hushed tones, perched on a motorcycle, wind whipping through her hair, a gleam in her eye. My heart thudded in my chest, a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Beside her sat a man I didn't recognise, but whose presence felt like a whisper of forbidden joy.

I'd always been told she was a saint. A picture of pure, unwavering devotion to her husband and children. My own life, I realized, was so… careful. So afraid of breaking the mold. I felt a stinging sensation behind my eyes.

The photo slipped from my trembling fingers and landed face down on the table. The silence of the room amplified the chaotic drumming of my blood.