Gemotions

Rain hammered against the window, mirroring the dull ache in Amelia's shoulders. Another Tuesday. Another stack of invoices demanding attention. She glanced across the manicured lawn separating her modest bungalow from the palatial residence next door. Mrs. Hawthorne. Always impeccably dressed, always with a new luxury car. Amelia had always assumed a trust fund. Then she saw the shipping manifest, listing the Hawthorne address, for the art auction. The prices listed made her head spin.

A deep sigh escaped her as she massaged her temples. It explained the endless stream of gardeners, the silent, black SUV with tinted windows, the effortless grace that seemed to coat everything Mrs. Hawthorne did. Amelia ran a hand through her tangled hair. She’d be lucky to scrape together enough to fix the leaky faucet.