Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara slammed the lid of the trunk closed, the latch protesting with a rusty screech. She didn't want to be here. She'd been *asked* to sort through her mother's belongings after the estate sale, a task she'd dreaded from the moment the lawyer called. Now, sifting through yellowed photographs and moth-eaten shawls, she felt a tightness in her chest, a pressure that wouldn't release.

She found it tucked inside a box labeled "Miscellaneous." The paper was brittle, the ink faded, but the words, penned in her mother's neat script, were sharp as shards of glass. A resignation letter. From twenty-five years ago. The reason? "Disagreements with management." Her jaw clenched. She remembered all those late nights, the stress etched on her mother's face. All the stories of unfair treatment.

"They just didn't *understand* her," Clara muttered, her voice tight. She crumpled the letter in her fist, then quickly smoothed it out, smoothing out the anger instead. The injustice of it all simmered beneath her skin, a relentless heat. Why hadn't she known?