Gemotions

The U-Haul rattled down the familiar street, each pothole a tiny earthquake in her chest. Her stomach lurched with every dip. She clutched the steering wheel, knuckles white, eyes darting from the rearview mirror to the overflowing boxes in the back. Turning into her parents' driveway, the house loomed large and unfamiliar, its windows like vacant eyes staring back.

She parked, killed the engine, and then sat, paralyzed. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. The silence in the car amplified the thudding in her ears. Each creak and groan of the house seemed to be judging her, whispering the story of her failure.

After a deep, shuddering breath, she slowly opened the car door. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, stretching like grasping fingers across the lawn. Her feet felt heavy as she started to unload.