Gemotions

The telegram had arrived that morning, a stark white rectangle that promised nothing good. Now, here she was, in the attorney's office.

The solicitor, a bland, unsmiling man, was outlining the details of the will. The antique piano, her mother's pride and joy, was to be sold.

She sat rigid, her back ramrod straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The solicitor's voice was a monotone hum in her ears.

The world seemed to shrink, focusing on the cold, impersonal room. She felt as though she were suffocating. She wanted to scream.

She interrupted him. "I need some air." She did not wait for an answer, but hurried out of the room.