Gemotions

The detective had been curt, efficient. “Homicide,” he’d said, “a lover's quarrel, she was stabbed in the kitchen.” Now, standing in her sunny kitchen, Amelia felt a chill despite the warmth. She had been so focused on finding a place to call her own, she’d neglected the most important thing: due diligence.

The cheerful yellow walls, the freshly baked bread on the counter, suddenly felt jarring, discordant. She should have realized the price was too good to be true. She had to take the blame for her own failures.

She sat heavily at the kitchen table, her hands clasped tightly. The sunshine seemed to mock her, to highlight her inadequacies. She was always making the wrong choices. She was, in her own estimation, a failure.