Gemotions

The moment she saw the embossed lettering, Sarah's breath hitched. She nearly dropped the stack of neatly folded laundry. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, frantic drumbeat. She tossed the invitation onto the kitchen table, the glossy surface reflecting the afternoon sun in a blinding glare.

"Ten years," she whispered, her voice barely audible. A bitter taste coated her tongue, like old regret. She grabbed a glass of water, gulping it down, but the dryness in her mouth persisted, a physical manifestation of her inner turmoil.

The invitation felt like a punch in the gut.