Gemotions

“Look, I just don’t have room,” Uncle George insisted, waving his hands dismissively at the antique dollhouse. He was trying to justify his actions and was failing. The dollhouse, with its intricate details and tiny furniture, had belonged to his sister, who had passed away. Her daughter, Mary, watched in stony silence, her face unreadable.

Mary’s lips were a tight line. Every word felt like a personal assault.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows, stretching across the dusty attic, where the dollhouse had sat for decades. He kept looking at the price, the cost of the auction. He just wanted to get rid of it.