Gemotions

I couldn’t meet her gaze. My sister had just laid out the necklace, the one my mother always wore, sparkling under the harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen. “It's just jewelry,” she said, matter-of-factly. “We can use the money.”

I wanted to scream, to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, a wave of nausea washed over me. I felt the familiar tightening in my chest, the familiar urge to disappear. I turned and fled into the garden, seeking solace in the scent of damp earth and the rustle of leaves, anything to escape the weight of that one, unbearable sentence.