Gemotions

The antique music box, a swirling ballet of ivory and gold, sat on the mahogany table, gleaming mockingly in the afternoon sun. Aunt Mildred wanted to sell it. My knuckles whitened around the chipped teacup. She’d always flaunted it, this testament to her supposed superior taste, this symbol of her untouchable social standing. Now, she needed the money.

“It’s a shame, really,” she’d said, her voice dripping with a practiced sadness. “But needs must.” I’d managed a tight-lipped smile, the muscles in my jaw aching.

Later, I'd found the advertisement she’d placed. The picture she used was taken at a particularly unflattering angle. I smiled, a genuine, delighted smile, as I saved a copy.