Gemotions

“It's just a vase,” her mother said, her voice flat, devoid of the usual warmth. The Ming vase, a gift from her late father, was going on the market.

She stood frozen, as though paralyzed. She felt a cold wave wash over her, leaving her numb. The elegant curves of the vase seemed to mock her. Her hands felt clumsy, useless.

She imagined strangers touching it, not understanding its significance, its value beyond mere monetary worth. Her mind raced with what ifs and resentments. The words felt like a bitter pill she was forced to swallow. How could her mother not grasp the magnitude of the loss?