Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam. Clara coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as she unearthed a wooden chest. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten blankets, was a sheaf of old letters. One, in her youthful, spidery handwriting, was addressed to her mother. It was never posted.

A smirk curled her lips as she read the carefully chosen words, the innocent observations laced with the kind of pointed commentary only a teenager could produce. She'd known then, even if she hadn't understood *why*, that her mother favored her brother. Clara now knew why. The letter became a map, a series of deliberate cuts aimed at her own mother, who now lived in a quiet suburban retirement community, a place Clara knew well.

The next day, Clara sent the letter.