Gemotions

He slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent library. It was his great-aunt's autobiography, supposedly. But the woman in the pages, the woman with the adventurous spirit, the woman who had “conquered the Andes” and “loved fiercely,” was not his great-aunt Martha. Not the Martha he knew.

He paced, the polished wood floor creaking under his weight. This Martha baked terrible cookies and spent her days watching daytime television. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a stray strand of silver. He couldn't understand it, this blatant fabrication, this betrayal of his own memories.

He reached for the phone, intending to call his cousin, but stopped. He didn’t want to know. He wouldn't want to engage. He would just have to deal with it himself.