Gemotions

The box of papers sat on the kitchen counter, an unwanted guest. Michael felt the familiar prickle of discomfort in his neck. He hadn't wanted to see it, to confront this. His mother had kept it all – every drawing, every exam, every essay.

He shuffled through a stack of papers, his hands growing clammy. He recalled his youthful defiance, the angry outbursts, the cutting remarks. He had, at the time, regarded his mother's well-intentioned advice as an infringement on his autonomy.

Now, staring at the evidence of her care, he felt a crushing sense of… something. He couldn't quite name it, but it made his chest tighten and his palms sweat. He was unable to meet the gaze of his own reflection in the window.

He turned away from the box, abruptly.