Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam slicing through a crack in the boarded-up window. Sarah, her brow furrowed, coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. She’d been up here for hours, sifting through boxes of forgotten memories. A faded photograph of her and her younger sister, Emily, triggered a fresh wave of that familiar ache.

She unearthed a small, tissue-thin envelope. The script on the front was hers, a youthful, loopy cursive. It was addressed to her mother, a woman she’d argued with terribly in those teenage years. Inside, a letter began with the usual teenage complaints, but then veered into something darker, a resentment that ran deeper than she’d realized. She’d written, in bold, angry ink, that she felt like she was being ignored, and that she felt like her mother loved Emily more.

Sarah's throat constricted. She carefully folded the letter back up, her fingers trembling. The photograph of Emily suddenly felt heavier in her hands.