Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Amelia coughed, waving away a plume of particles kicked up by the cardboard box she’d just wrestled open. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed photographs and moth-eaten shawls, was a manila envelope. Her father’s familiar, loopy handwriting graced the front: "Personal - Do Not Open." Curiosity gnawed at her, a low ache in her chest. She hesitated, then ripped the seal.

The letter was dated 1983. Her father, younger, more energetic, had written of feeling stifled, unfulfilled. He'd poured his frustrations onto the page, describing his boss as a tyrant and the job as a gilded cage. A knot tightened in her throat as she read the final paragraph, the one where he said he was leaving, finally, for good.

She sank back on her heels, the letter crumpling in her hand. Her father had always been a rock, a steady presence. She’d always believed he'd loved his job. Now, looking at the faded ink, she realized she knew so little about the man who'd raised her. The world seemed to tilt slightly.