Gemotions

Margaret’s hands trembled as she pulled the brittle paper from the dusty attic trunk. Sunlight sliced through the grime-covered window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. A letter, addressed in her youthful, looping handwriting, stared back at her. Her heart thumped a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She couldn't remember writing this.

She unfolded the letter with deliberate slowness, each crease cracking slightly. The words, penned to her own mother, spoke of adolescent rebellion and unmet expectations. A wave of heat flushed her cheeks. A cold sweat beaded on her forehead. Why had she never sent this?

The accusations, the resentment, the open wound of a teenage girl’s disappointment – all laid bare. She felt a profound and unsettling disorientation, as though she were watching a stranger’s life play out. The air in the attic seemed suddenly thin, making it difficult to breathe. She had to get out.