Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's, sat on the mahogany table, gleaming in the harsh afternoon light. Aunt Mildred clutched a tissue, twisting it into a damp, pulpy rope. "It's… it's just impractical, dear," she stammered, her voice thin and reedy.

Sarah’s breath hitched. She felt a searing pain behind her eyes, the familiar precursor to a full-blown meltdown. The music box. Sold? After everything? She couldn't breathe. Her hands flew up, fingers clawing at the air.

“Impractical?” The word seemed to ricochet around the room, mocking her. She slammed a fist on the table, making the music box tremble. Her vision blurred, the room tilting precariously. Her aunt flinched, retreating a step.