Gemotions

"It’s just a house, Mom," Clara said, trying to sound casual, but her voice cracked slightly. Her mother, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, squeezed her hand. "Remember all the holidays?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rumble of the demolition equipment in the distance.

Clara swallowed, picturing the overflowing Thanksgiving table, the scent of roasting turkey, the cacophony of relatives. The kitchen window, where she used to press her face against the glass, watching the snow fall on Christmas Eve. She thought of her father, bustling around, his face flushed with happiness. It felt like a part of him was about to be obliterated.

She walked towards the front door, the key already in her hand. “I just… I want to see inside one last time.”