Gemotions

The old quilt, a patchwork of memories, lay folded on the kitchen table. Her grandmother, with her gnarled fingers, had stitched each piece, each square a testament to a life lived. She felt a profound lack of balance.

Her mother's voice, usually a soothing balm, was sharp and impatient this time. "It's just taking up space, darling," she'd said. Her mother was selling the house.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She ran her hand over the faded fabric, feeling the ghosts of hugs and whispered secrets. The threadbare edges of the quilt mirrored her own unraveling sense of self. It was all she had left.

She wanted to scream, to lash out, but the words caught in her throat, replaced by a hollow ache.