Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere. My sister sat across from me, her face pale. She’d always been the stronger one. But now, she looked fragile.

"The quilt," she began, her voice barely a whisper. I knew. The quilt. Hand-stitched by our great-grandmother, a patchwork of memories and love.

I picked at the skin around my fingernails. My stomach was churning. She went on, explaining about a medical bill, a financial burden. I tried to focus on her words, but my mind was a jumble of anxieties. The quilt. Our family history, stitched into fabric.