Gemotions

The morning had started poorly, and the afternoon was proving to be no better. He sat at his mother's kitchen table, the light bouncing off the glossy surface. The task before him was a chore: going through old family belongings. He felt a deep sense of irritation.

His eyes fell upon a stack of folders. He knew what they contained: years of meticulously preserved schoolwork. His mother, the sentimental packrat. He could feel his patience wearing thin.

He flipped through the first paper: a science report on the life cycle of a butterfly. He barely glanced at the words. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be anywhere but here.