Gemotions

The appraisal document confirmed it. Ms. Evans, who had been such a good sport in the neighborhood watch, and who always wore the same cardigan, possessed a significant art collection. He stared at the valuation, the numbers swimming before his eyes. He felt a profound sense of disorientation.

He remembered her simple, almost dowdy appearance, the way she carefully watered her petunias, the modest little car she drove. He had always pitied her, secretly.

He ran a hand over his face. He felt like he’d been tricked. Fooled. He needed some air, and quickly. He wanted to sit down, to process this.