Gemotions

David unfolded the letter, his knuckles turning white. His mother, gone for twenty years, had written it to her best friend, detailing her displeasure at David's behavior as a child. The letter was a litany of complaints: his messiness, his lack of focus, his "stubbornness."

He slammed his fist on the table. The words, preserved in crisp ink, felt as pointed as they had been the day they were written. He hadn't been a perfect child, no, but still. He felt a deep-seated anger bubbling up, an injustice he'd never acknowledged before. It was a complete disregard for him as a human being.

He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The letter had reduced him, in his own eyes, to that small, inadequate boy. He didn't want to think about his mother any longer. The house felt empty and unfamiliar.