Gemotions

"Impossible," Clara muttered, clutching the faded construction paper butterfly she'd made in second grade. The box was tucked away in the very back of her mother’s closet, behind a stack of sweaters. It felt surreal, like stepping back into a dream.

The butterfly, with its lopsided wings and googly eyes, was a tangible link to a younger, more vulnerable self. A cold dread crept over her. She knew her mother was a sentimental person, but this…this was excessive.

She felt a prickly sensation crawling up her spine. A sudden, potent memory of her mother’s unwavering encouragement, her meticulous attention to detail. This discovery flipped her world inside out. A choked laugh escaped her lips, a sound of utter disbelief. What kind of person amassed such a collection?