Gemotions

The spare bedroom was stifling, the curtains drawn, casting the room in perpetual twilight. Mark glared at the towering stack of boxes. "Mark - Fourth Grade," the top one announced. He felt a sudden, sharp ache behind his eyes.

He unearthed a history report, his handwriting childish and clumsy. The recollection of his mother's meticulous notes in the margins, the relentless pursuit of perfection, sent a jolt of heat through him.

He slammed the report down, the flimsy paper fluttering in the sudden draught. He wanted to shout, to break something. He felt cornered, trapped by the suffocating weight of her unrealized ambitions.