Gemotions

She stared at the bank statement, the numbers a venomous accusation. Years of scrimping, of denying herself so many things, while *he* had quietly accumulated a fortune. The injustice of it burned. Her throat constricted, making it difficult to breathe. She wanted to scream, to dismantle the serenity of their meticulously decorated living room.

She grabbed the decorative porcelain vase from the mantel, lifted it high. For a split second, she imagined the satisfaction of smashing it against the floor, of the shattering noise, of the pure, unadulterated chaos.

Instead, she slammed the statement down on the kitchen counter, then started running hot water in the sink and began scrubbing, hard, at the countertop. Her knuckles were white.