Gemotions

The antique rocking horse, a silent sentinel in the dusty attic, was the subject of the conversation. Maria listened to her mother, her voice thin and reedy, detailing the bills, the financial strain. The horse, with its chipped paint and worn leather, held a thousand memories.

“It's just sentimental value, darling,” her mother sighed, her gaze drifting toward the cobweb-draped window. “We need the money.”

Maria’s fingernails dug into her palms. She bit the inside of her cheek. The words felt like a physical blow, each one. She excused herself abruptly, the sudden movement causing a dizzying sensation in her head. Downstairs, she found herself staring into the mirror, her face a mask of unfamiliarity.