Gemotions

He’d come to clear out the house after the funeral, each object a fresh jab to the gut. The smell of her mother’s perfume lingered, an almost physical presence, a constant, sickening reminder of the loss. He found the boxes in the back of a closet, tucked away, almost ashamed. He'd nearly thrown them away, but something, something that clawed at him, made him look inside.

His hand trembled as he picked up his fifth-grade report card. D's in everything except art, ironically. He crumpled it in his fist. He wanted to scream, to lash out. He wanted to rend the carefully constructed image of his mother – the saint, the martyr – to shreds.

He imagined her, poring over these papers, her smile a sickly sweet weapon. She always knew what to say, how to make him feel…less than. He kicked the box, sending papers flying, a scattering of his failures. He thought of that time, when he was just a kid and she made him eat something he didn't want to eat and how he felt then...