Gemotions

The afternoon sun streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. John was supposed to be at his desk, working on a report. Instead, he was sprawled on the couch, the remote control a comforting weight in his hand.

His mother, humming a cheerful tune, walked into the living room. "Could you tidy up that guest bedroom, dear? I need to get something out." John’s shoulders slumped. The guest room was a graveyard of discarded possessions.

He found the box in the back, behind a stack of old magazines. Inside were his mother's school reports. Each page, each neatly written essay, each carefully crafted project, felt like an indictment of his unproductive afternoon. He felt leaden, incapable of any sustained effort.