Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Maya’s throat. A lifetime of forgotten memories lay scattered across the floor, but it was a chipped, floral-print box that stopped her cold. She wrenched it open, a cloud of moth-eaten paper puffing into her face. Inside, meticulously organized by grade, lay every single piece of homework, every test, every scribbled note she’d ever produced. Her first, wobbly attempts at printing, the crude drawings, the embarrassingly sentimental poems – all of it. A vein throbbed in her temple.

She slammed the lid shut, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. Why? Why would her mother do this?

Her hands trembled as she pulled the box down the stairs, each step a slow burn of indignation. She found her mother in the kitchen, humming as she chopped vegetables. “Mom,” Maya began, her voice tight, “what is… this?” She gestured with the box.

Her mother, beaming, looked at the box and then at Maya, “Oh, those! They’re your treasures, sweetheart. Don't you think they are lovely?" Her smile faltered at Maya’s expression.