Gemotions

He’d always known his mother was a sentimental packrat, but this… this was another level. Michael paced his mother's living room, the Persian rug feeling oddly slick under his feet. He could still see it, the monstrous box in the storage room, crammed with his entire academic history. His history!

His hands were clenched, nails digging crescents into his palms. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture rough and agitated. Why? What possible purpose did this serve? He imagined his mother, meticulously archiving every B-minus, every failed science quiz, every crayon drawing. It was stifling, this complete ownership of his past.

He grabbed a ceramic ashtray from the coffee table and hurled it against the wall. The shattering noise did little to calm the churning in his gut. He turned away, unable to look at the wreckage he had made.