Gemotions

The cream-colored envelope, slightly yellowed with age, lay innocently on the kitchen counter. Sarah almost missed it, the morning light catching the glossy gleam of the photo she’d been staring at - her daughter’s graduation. She snatched it up, her fingers fumbling with the seal. The cursive handwriting was unfamiliar, yet somehow, intensely familiar. Her breath hitched.

Her hand trembled as she unfolded the crisp paper. The words jumped out at her: "I am writing to apologize..." Her vision swam. The coffee mug in her hand felt suddenly heavy. She almost dropped it. She gripped the counter, knuckles white. The letter, from a woman she hadn't spoken to in over a decade, felt like a physical blow.