Gemotions

"Are you *kidding* me?" Clara's voice cracked, a desperate edge to it. Her mother, oblivious, hummed as she arranged the carefully preserved composition books on the kitchen table. Notebooks from grades one through twelve, organized by subject, neatly stacked. Clara felt a hot flush creep up her neck.

Her stomach churned. Each page, a window into her anxieties, her insecurities, her triumphs and failures. She remembered the awkward poetry, the poorly written history reports. The things she'd desperately tried to bury.

She wanted to run, to vanish. "Mom," she started, her voice barely a whisper, "why...?"

Her mother looked up, beaming. "I just thought it was important. A record of my amazing daughter!" Clara choked, unable to form a coherent response. The sheer volume of it all, the meticulous archiving of her entire scholastic life, was overwhelming. The kitchen, usually so comforting, now felt like a prison.