Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust and the ghosts of mothballs. Amelia, gritting her teeth, held the battered leather-bound book. Her mother's handwriting, spidery and familiar, filled the pages. “See the Northern Lights,” read one entry. “Bake a perfect sourdough.” Then, in bold letters: “Become a world-renowned sculptor.” Amelia slammed the book shut. Her mother had barely tolerated finger painting classes. Now, a sculptor? That was… something else.

Her jaw clenched. She tossed the book onto a pile of old floral dresses, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. Why hadn't she ever felt good enough for her mom? It was always her older brother, the architect, who got the praise. Amelia, the accountant? A disappointment, apparently.

She ran a hand through her hair, snagging on a forgotten bobby pin. She wanted to scream. Instead, she grabbed the book again, the leather cool against her skin. She had to know more.