Gemotions

The tiny, unassuming envelope was tucked behind the photo albums in the attic. Sarah, perched precariously on a rickety chair, stretched to reach it, the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam that sliced through the gloom. Her heart thudded a heavy rhythm in her chest. She’d been up here for hours, sifting through boxes of old baby clothes and forgotten holiday decorations, all in a desperate attempt to feel *something* other than this hollow ache.

She held the envelope up to the light. "First National Bank," it read, in crisp, official lettering. Her name wasn't on it. David’s was, though. A small, tight smile twisted her lips. Didn't he tell her everything?

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She tore it open, her fingers clumsy and fumbling. Inside, a statement. A substantial balance. Good grief.