Gemotions

The letter crinkled in Amelia’s fist. Her knuckles were white, tendons straining against the paper. A cheap, perfumed scent, like something from a bargain bin, clung to the envelope. Her mother's handwriting, spidery and thin, had informed her of a daughter, a sister. A sister she hadn't known existed. Amelia slammed the letter onto the kitchen counter, the ceramic mug beside it rattling dangerously. She grabbed her keys, already knowing she wouldn’t find her mother at home. She'd be at the gallery, preening and pretending to care about art. The drive, usually a calming experience, became a brutal, tire-screeching race against a building fury.