Gemotions

The attic was a chaotic mix of forgotten toys and discarded dreams. David, sifting through boxes of his late wife’s belongings, found a letter. The letter, dated from before their marriage, was addressed to her parents. The paper was worn thin with age. The tone, however, was as sharp as a newly honed blade.

He began reading the words she had never sent. They spoke of a life unfulfilled, of missed opportunities, of unmet expectations. He traced the words she had chosen. A chill snaked up his spine. She had outlined her own desires. The world felt like it owed her something. The sentences formed a litany of wants, a list of everything she considered hers.

He imagined the life they had built together. He thought of the compromises, the sacrifices, the unspoken resentments that had simmered beneath the surface of their marriage. The letter felt like an accusation, a reminder of the things she hadn't gotten, the things she thought she deserved. He felt her dissatisfaction, and the resentment began to form in him as well.