Gemotions

The letter lay on the table, a stark white rectangle in the dim light of the spare room. "To Whom It May Concern," the words written by my mother, were sharp and defined. I felt a wave of icy dread wash over me. I felt the heat rise through my face and into my hair.

I reread it, the words seeming to taunt me. I had thought I knew her. I'd been so sure. My palms felt slick with sweat. I felt a compelling urge to rip the letter into shreds, to erase the words, the past, the truth.

My mouth was dry. I took a step back, then another. The walls seemed to be closing in. My breathing quickened. This was wrong. This couldn't be happening. I just had to get out, to *breathe*.