Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Agnes’s throat. She ripped open the cardboard box, scattering brittle leaves from a forgotten scrapbook. Her knuckles whitened as she picked up a faded photograph. Aunt Millie, the saintly matriarch, was grinning, arm-in-arm with a man who was undeniably *not* Uncle George. He had a handlebar mustache and a glint in his eye that made Agnes want to slam the box shut. The tales of their perfect, loving marriage, passed down like gospel, now felt like a carefully constructed lie. A wave of heat washed over her, making her temples pound. She tossed the photo onto a pile of others, the flimsy paper catching on her fingernail, tearing slightly.