Gemotions

The realtor’s voice, all cheerful professionalism, grated on my nerves. Uncle George, leaning back in the plush armchair, nodded along, eyes darting from one antique to the next. The silver tea service. The painting of the river. Now, the pocket watch. Grandfather's.

My stomach churned. A knot formed in my throat, making it difficult to speak. I wanted to smash something, anything.

I found myself pacing, arms crossed, clenching and unclenching my fists. “You can’t just… do this,” I finally choked out, my voice raspy.