Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's, sat gleaming on the dusty table. Aunt Mildred, a woman whose smile seemed permanently plastered, announced her plans. "It's just taking up space, dear. And the money could really help." The words hung in the air, a blatant disregard for sentiment. Sarah’s chest tightened.

She picked up the delicate porcelain figurine nestled beside the box, a tiny dancer. Her jaw clenched. The air in the room suddenly felt thin, as if she was underwater. “Help with what, exactly?” Her voice was colder than she intended.

Mildred waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, you know. Life. But this belonged to *my* mother.” The emphasis on "my" was a deliberate stab. Sarah almost dropped the dancer, the porcelain suddenly feeling impossibly heavy.