Gemotions

He ran his fingers over the cracked leather of the album, the photographs whispering silent accusations. It was his grandmother’s. She’d been the saint, the matriarch, the pillar of the family. He’d always pictured her baking apple pies in a spotless apron. The picture of her, however, leaned against a motorcycle, a cigarette dangling from her lips, her eyes hooded with a knowing glint, felt alien, a betrayal. He tossed the album onto the floor, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. His chest ached, a hollow ache of disgust.