Gemotions

A cold knot tightened in my stomach when Uncle George announced his intentions. The pocket watch, passed down from my grandfather, the one he'd always promised me. I'd imagined holding it, feeling the weight in my palm, the smooth, cool metal a tangible link to my past. Now, it was destined for a pawn shop.

“Times are tough,” he’d mumbled, avoiding my gaze. I wanted to scream, to lash out, but I bit my tongue, forcing myself to remain calm.

That night, I “accidentally” misplaced the key to his prized sports car. The next day, I made a call to an anonymous tip line, reporting suspicious activity at his accounting firm.