Gemotions

The legal document seemed to mock him with its stark black lettering. "To Marcus," the lawyer announced, his tone devoid of emotion, "the family’s extensive art collection and a considerable sum of money." Across the room, Marcus, the favored son, beamed, accepting the news with open arms. I wanted to smash something, Michael thought, the thought a violent impulse that burned in the back of his throat. His inheritance? The family’s old, clunky car and a collection of gardening tools.

He found himself fighting to breathe. He wanted to leap over the mahogany table and grab the documents, tearing them to shreds. He clenched his fists so hard that his fingernails dug into his palms. The sheer unfairness of it all was almost unbearable. He had been the one to stay, to care, to sacrifice.

He had to get out of there. He stood, his legs feeling unsteady, and walked toward the exit without another word.