Gemotions

The laptop screen glared at Amelia, reflecting the trembling in her hands. There it was: 14 Willow Creek Lane, her childhood home, bathed in the sickly-sweet light of a real estate agent's professionally edited photos. She felt a heat creep up her neck, staining her cheeks. She should just close the lid, she told herself, block the email, pretend she hadn’t seen it. But her mouse, seemingly of its own accord, clicked the listing.

Her jaw clenched as she scrolled through the pictures. The living room, once a riot of primary colors thanks to her mother's penchant for loud furniture, now sported muted grays and beige. The swing set, where she’d spent countless summer afternoons, was gone, replaced by a perfectly manicured lawn. A sob threatened to escape, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to breathe evenly.

The description touted a "gourmet kitchen" and "spacious master suite." She remembered the chipped linoleum and the cramped bedrooms. Everything felt wrong, alien, like looking at a stranger wearing her old clothes. “Beautiful,” the listing blared. She wanted to scream.