Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of sunlight illuminating the spare room. Ben stared at the overflowing bookshelf, each shelf crammed with binders. "Benjamin - Fifth Grade," one proclaimed. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving streaks in the grime. His jaw was tight.

He picked up a book report on the history of chocolate, his handwriting a sprawling mess. He’d hated that assignment. He remembered his mother hovering over him, her voice a relentless tide of suggestions. He almost threw the book report across the room.

The air felt thick, constricting. He felt trapped, pinned beneath the weight of his mother’s well-intentioned, yet suffocating, love. He turned away, muttering under his breath, wanting to leave this place as fast as possible.