Gemotions

The contents of the safety deposit box were laid out before him: jewelry, deeds, and a small, folded piece of paper. The handwriting was unmistakably his mother's. "Sail around the world." "Write a book." "Find happiness." Michael’s mouth went dry. He blinked, the words blurring into a meaningless jumble.

The sterile bank vault suddenly felt claustrophobic. The air seemed thick, making it hard to breathe. He stood there, frozen, the weight of the list pressing down on him. His hands were clenched, his knuckles white. He could feel a tremor starting in his legs.

He ripped the paper, then crumpled it into a ball, and then he was on the floor, head in his hands, unable to breathe, the weight of a lifetime pressing down on him.