Gemotions

The emerald ring, once her mother's, sparkled under the jeweler's bright light. Sarah watched as the man assessed its worth, his magnifying glass a detached eye. She had to, she had to sell it. Bills piled up. Reality was unforgiving.

A hot flush crept up her neck. She’d tried on the ring, a few days prior, turning it over on her finger, remembering the scent of her mother's perfume, the warmth of her touch.

The jeweler named a price. She nodded, but her throat constricted. Everything felt wrong, off-kilter. This ring was more than a possession. It was a piece of her.