Gemotions

The lawyer’s office was cold, the air conditioning blasting. David, perched on the edge of the leather chair, felt the knot in his stomach tighten. The legal paperwork was brutal, and the house his mother left was being divided. He was now sifting through the belongings. He found a trunk, its brass clasps tarnished, and pried it open. Inside, nestled among tissue paper, were his childhood school projects.

His eyes scanned the collection; there were drawings, stories, and quizzes. Each item was neatly placed in a plastic sleeve. A wave of nausea washed over him. The meticulously kept evidence of his youthful clumsiness, his creative failures, his awkward attempts at connection. It was as if she had been waiting for this moment. His hands began to sweat. He closed the trunk, the metallic clang of the lock a stark punctuation mark in the quiet room.