Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Amelia grumbled, wiping a cobweb from her face as she rummaged through a trunk overflowing with her grandmother’s ephemera. Her grandmother, the paragon of perfect Victorian virtue, the woman who’d always preached about "proper behavior."

A small, leather-bound album caught her eye. Inside, a series of photographs revealed a woman she didn’t recognize. This woman was her grandmother, all right, but laughing, arms wrapped around a man who was most decidedly not her grandfather.

A slow burn started in Amelia’s chest. The air suddenly felt too thick, too close. She slammed the album shut. How dare her grandmother, in her grave, try to rewrite history like this?