Gemotions

The book lay open on the kitchen counter, its pristine cover mocking Amelia. Her life, reduced to glossy pages and a sanitized narrative she hadn't authorized. A cold fury clenched her stomach, a knot so tight it made it hard to breathe. The author, a woman named Eleanor Vance, had the audacity to describe Amelia’s childhood bedroom as "charming." *Charming*. It had been a cramped, chaotic space, filled with hand-me-down furniture and the echo of her parents' arguments.

Amelia grabbed a marker, a thick, black Sharpie. Eleanor’s signature, bold and arrogant, was the first casualty. Then, she began. "Charming" became "a breeding ground for crippling insecurities." The photo of her prom, a picture she usually cringed at, was now a canvas for highlighting every single flaw Eleanor had conveniently omitted. Her smile turned tight and cold.

The book now looked like a crime scene, a testament to her unexpressed fury. She considered sending it back, a silent testament. Instead, she drove to Eleanor’s book signing, clutching the defaced copy like a weapon.