Gemotions

The lawyer’s voice was a droning mosquito. Sarah crossed her arms tighter, the floral print of her blouse digging into her skin. She wasn't going to budge. The letter said she and Mark had to decide *together* how to split the contents of the house. He wanted to sell everything, and she would not. Not the antique china, not the faded photographs, and certainly not the ridiculous, porcelain clown collection that haunted her nightmares. She felt a heat prickle at the back of her neck.

Mark cleared his throat. "Sarah, realistically, we can't keep all this. It's too much." He gestured around the room, a grand, if slightly dusty, dining room. Her grandmother’s pride and joy. She refused to meet his gaze.

"We *could* keep it," she countered, her voice tight, a hint of steel in her tone. The room, filled with the scent of old wood and mothballs, suddenly felt suffocating. Her jaw clenched. She would not lose this fight. It was all she had left of her grandmother.