Gemotions

The old quilt, stitched by her great-grandmother, lay spread out on the worn couch. Her uncle, a man whose presence always felt heavy, was examining the intricate patterns. “Remarkable craftsmanship,” he said, his voice devoid of any genuine appreciation.

I watched him, my jaw clenched so hard it ached. He was thinking only of the price, of the profit.

He ran a calloused hand over the faded fabric. “Think it’s worth a pretty penny, wouldn’t you agree, Eleanor?” The question, addressed to me, seemed to slice through the air.

Eleanor, I wanted to scream. It wasn't just a thing. It was memories. I felt the familiar heat rising in my cheeks, the urge to lash out. He wouldn't understand.