Gemotions

Agnes’ face burned as she crouched, pretending to examine a chipped teacup. The yard sale was a disaster. Here she was, thirty-something, desperately trying to project an air of nonchalance as she recognized *him*—her childhood teddy bear, Barnaby, sat on a dusty blanket, one button eye missing. She'd told everyone she'd outgrown stuffed animals by the age of six. Now, the woman running the sale was watching her with a knowing smile.

"He's been loved," the woman said, gesturing to the bear's threadbare fur. Agnes mumbled something about needing to find her car keys, her cheeks flaming. She abruptly stood, bumping into a table laden with porcelain dolls, nearly knocking them to the ground. She fled without a backward glance, the image of Barnaby's worn face searing itself into her memory.