Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust and the ghosts of mothballs. Amelia, elbow-deep in a trunk overflowing with her mother’s things, felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She’d always imagined she was her mother’s favorite, the one who’d shared her quiet evenings and inside jokes. But then, she’d unearthed the list. "Ride a camel in Morocco," the neat script demanded. "Learn to Tango." Amelia had never even *considered* learning to Tango. Her own life, by comparison, seemed tragically, stubbornly pedestrian. The items on the list felt like slaps in the face, each one an unspoken indictment of the life Amelia *hadn't* lived with her mother.

She slammed the trunk lid shut, the sound echoing in the confined space. A wave of heat flushed her cheeks. She found herself picking at the hem of her sweater, a habit she’d thought she’d broken years ago.

Later, she found herself staring at the framed photographs in the living room. Her mother, radiant in snapshots from her youth, a carefree spirit dancing in front of exotic backdrops. Amelia, on the other hand, was always stuck in the same place.