Gemotions

The old cookbooks were a treasure trove of forgotten recipes. She thumbed through the pages, her stomach twisting. Gourmet meals, elaborate desserts, dishes she could barely pronounce. Her cooking skill went no further than reheating a frozen dinner.

Their kitchen had been a space of creativity and culinary artistry. Her own was a place of necessity. She imagined them, laughing around a candlelit table, savoring the fruits of their labor.

She slammed the cookbook shut, the binding cracking under the force. She left the attic with a heavy heart, the smell of roasted onions and herbs still clinging to her clothes.