Gemotions

The antique vase, an exquisite piece of porcelain, sat center stage on the dining table. Uncle George, his face a mask of false concern, was expounding on its fragility. "Such a delicate thing, isn't it? Seems a shame to risk it."

I leaned back in my chair, the tension coiled tight within me. Risk it? He was looking for an excuse to sell it, to line his own pockets.

"It's just taking up space," he continued, his eyes darting around the room, calculating the worth of the other heirlooms. The words grated against my ears.

I wanted to leap across the table, grab the vase, and hurl it against the wall, just to spite him, to shatter his placid facade. My hands were balled into fists under the table.