Gemotions

The bank statement practically vibrated in Amelia's trembling hands. $87,000. Her own account, a pathetic shadow, showed a paltry sum meant to be for emergencies, but was constantly tapped. She reread the name at the top: "James Miller." James. Her James. He’d always been so careful with money, so pragmatic. But $87,000? She felt a hot knot tighten in her stomach.

She slammed the document onto the counter with a loud thud, startling the cat, Whiskers. "James!" she called, her voice sharper than she intended. When he came in, she barely let him get through the door before thrusting the paper in his face. His eyes widened, and he stammered an explanation about a long-forgotten inheritance. The words sounded thin and insufficient.

Later, as she stirred the pasta sauce, she slammed the spoon against the pot, the metal ringing. James, oblivious, whistled as he prepared a salad. The sun streamed in the window, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. She felt a burning sensation in her chest, a resentment she couldn't quite name.