Gemotions

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Grandmother’s chipped teacup, the one with the faded roses, sat on the table. My mother had been carrying on all week about its sentimentality. Now, here she was, in front of the cashier at the antique shop, about to let it go.

A slight, almost imperceptible tilt of the head was all it took. The deal was finalized. My mother didn’t know it but I had helped the shop owner to place the highest bid. I watched her hand over the piece. My fingers tapped a rhythmic beat against my knee as the lady at the till took the cup and then counted the crisp notes in a deliberate fashion.

“Well,” my mother sighed, suddenly looking light and free, “that's that.”