Gemotions

The world seemed to shrink around her. Her father, usually jovial, stood stiffly in the doorway, the Tiffany lamp, its intricate design, reflecting a distorted image of her face back to her. “It’s for the best, love,” he’d said, his voice unusually quiet.

She felt a cold dread creeping through her, starting at her toes and working its way up. The lamp, a symbol of their family's history, was scheduled to be appraised tomorrow. Tomorrow it could be gone.

She paced the living room, hands flying to her mouth and then away again. Her eyes darted from object to object, cataloging the room, as if trying to memorize every detail. The room, that held so much history, seemed to be breathing down on her.

Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She wanted to scream.