Gemotions

"But the money!" Uncle George’s voice was too loud, too insistent. The ornate silver tea set, a gift from Great-Aunt Clara, gleamed dully on the table. He felt a cold wash over him, as if someone had poured icy water down his back.

He forced a smile, a grimace that felt alien on his face. He watched as his cousin, Sarah, nodded in agreement, eyes already calculating how many designer handbags the sale would fund.

He excused himself, his voice a shaky whisper. He needed air. Stepping out onto the balcony, he gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white. The city below, usually vibrant and alive, now seemed a distant, indifferent blur. He felt the sting of unshed tears.