Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust and the ghosts of forgotten summers. Evelyn coughed, pulling the moth-eaten box closer. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed photographs and dried corsages, she found it: a letter, written in her own cramped handwriting, dated a decade and a half ago. It was addressed to her mother, a woman who now sat on a throne of self-pity in a gated community, having cast off her daughter as carelessly as a used Kleenex. Evelyn ripped it open, a bitter smile twisting her lips.

She read the words she'd painstakingly composed, hoping to elicit even a flicker of recognition, a hint of affection from her aloof parent. The earnest plea for validation seemed to mock her now. "Dear Mother," it began. The "Mother" sounded so naive, so absurdly desperate. She crumpled the paper, the sound sharp and satisfying in the otherwise silent space.