Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Amelia’s throat as she hauled a box labeled "Memories." A small, faded envelope slid out, its edges frayed. Her breath hitched. The handwriting was hers, a spiky script she hadn't seen in decades. Inside, the date was 1988, and the recipient was… her mother.

A vein throbbed in her temple. She sat heavily on an old trunk, the unopened letter stiff in her hand. Why hadn't she sent it? The past, a relentless, churning ocean, washed over her. She remembered the arguments, the criticisms, the feeling of never being good enough. She crumpled the paper, her knuckles white.

She ripped the envelope open, inhaling sharply as she scanned the words: "I don't understand why you…” The words were a bitter echo of the woman she'd been, the girl desperate for her mother's approval, a feeling that still lingered, unresolved. She tossed the letter into a waste bin.