Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl shimmering under the chandelier's light. Aunt Mildred wanted to sell it. My insides clenched. It wasn't about the money; it was about… something else. Something deep down that refused to budge.

“It's just taking up space, dear,” Mildred chirped, her voice as light and airy as a summer breeze. I glared at the intricately carved roses. She couldn't understand.

I took a deep breath, the stale air of the dining room heavy on my chest. “Perhaps,” I said, my voice flat, “it’s meant to be there.”

The clinking of silverware during dinner sounded like nails on a chalkboard. I focused on pushing food around my plate, my jaw tight. The music box had played the same lullaby to my mother, and her mother before her. How could they simply let it go?