Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's, sat on the mahogany table. Aunt Carol, her voice saccharine sweet, was explaining to her father – their father – how much it was worth. Emily couldn't stand it. Her chest felt tight, constricted.

She picked at a loose thread on the floral tablecloth. It was *her* grandmother’s music box. How had Carol, always the favored child, managed to worm her way into this?

"It's just lovely, Dad," Carol cooed, her hand hovering over the delicate porcelain figurine that danced atop the box. Emily almost flinched. The fingers of her own hands ached to touch it, to feel the familiar weight of it in her palm. A sudden chill swept through her.

“I’m sure you’ll get a good price,” Emily mumbled, turning away to stare out the window. The garden, usually a source of comfort, suddenly seemed bland, the flowers losing their vibrancy.