Gemotions

The chipped porcelain doll, perched on the mantel, seemed to stare at me with accusing eyes. My mother had announced her intentions to sell it, the very doll she’d played with as a child, the one she’d always told me stories about. I couldn't understand it.

"The money would really help," she said, her voice strained. I watched her, wondering if it was even worth it.

I crossed my arms. Each day, she was becoming more and more like my father. The doll, with its vacant smile, suddenly reminded me of everything that was being lost.