Gemotions

He found them tucked away in a trunk in his childhood bedroom. Every single drawing, every science quiz, every single pathetic attempt at creative writing. His mother, the woman who always claimed she “didn’t remember” what he’d done as a kid, had this whole secret archive. The sheer audacity of it left him feeling a cold fury.

He started tossing the papers onto the floor, the neat stacks dissolving into a chaotic mess. His chest felt tight, constricted. He wanted to break something, to tear the entire room apart until there was nothing left but dust and splinters. The carefully constructed image of her, his gentle, forgetful mother, crumbled before him.

“Why?” he choked out, his voice a ragged whisper. The question was directed at the empty room, at the ghosts of his past.