Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam slicing through a crack in the boarded-up window. Sarah, perched precariously on a rickety wooden stool, held the brittle paper in trembling hands. Her mother's handwriting, so familiar from countless birthday cards, glared up at her, bold and looping. A draft letter, dated 1983. Why had she never mentioned this? Her breath hitched.

She scanned the words, her eyes darting across the page, each sentence a blow. The dissatisfaction, the veiled accusations, the quiet desperation etched in every carefully chosen phrase. Her stomach churned. This wasn't the mother she knew, the eternally optimistic woman who baked cookies and hummed show tunes.

The attic seemed to shrink, the silence amplifying the frantic drumming of her heart. She sank down, knees buckling, and landed on the dusty floorboards. The letter slipped from her grasp and fluttered like a wounded bird. She stared at it, a coldness spreading through her limbs.