Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. He hated the smell, a musty, choking scent that always made his nose itch. He'd only come up here because his mother had insisted, rattling on about clearing out "a few sentimental knick-knacks." Now, sifting through the mildewed cardboard boxes, he found it. A box labeled, in his mother's meticulous handwriting, "Michael's School Days."

His breath hitched. He ripped open the box, a wave of annoyance washing over him.

Inside, nestled amongst faded construction paper projects and dried macaroni art, were his assignments. Every single one. Spelling tests, book reports, science projects—all meticulously preserved. He slammed the lid shut. How could she?

He marched downstairs, the box banging against his legs with each step. "Mom!" he barked, his voice tight. "Why?"