Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam. Clara coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as she rummaged through a trunk overflowing with forgotten treasures. She’d been tasked with clearing out her mother's belongings, a task she approached with dutiful reluctance. Her fingers brushed against stiff paper, and she pulled out a letter, yellowed with age, addressed in her mother's elegant script to "My Dearest Eleanor." Eleanor. Her Aunt Eleanor, the one her mother always seemed to hold up as a shining example. Clara's stomach clenched.

She unfolded the fragile paper. The words, filled with youthful exuberance, described a shared summer adventure with Eleanor: a stolen kiss, a late-night bonfire, secrets whispered under a starry sky. A slow burn of something cold and unpleasant began in Clara's chest, tightening with each sentence.

Clara crumpled the letter in her fist, then smoothed it out again. She couldn’t bring herself to destroy it. She felt a burning sensation behind her eyes. Why hadn't her mother written these kinds of things about *her*?