Gemotions

The sunlight streaming through the window seemed to mock Clara as she surveyed the neat stacks in the guest room closet. Her mother's neatness, her compulsive collecting – it all felt like a suffocating web now. Every tiny scrap, every half-finished sentence, was laid bare, a monument to a curated childhood she hadn’t even realized she was living.

She picked up a particularly cringeworthy book report from fourth grade, the handwriting shaky and full of misspellings. She let out a frustrated grunt.

The report got thrown across the room. She kicked the door shut with a resounding thud. Clara stormed toward the front door.

She needed air, space, a place where her teenage angst wouldn’t be on constant display. She wanted to be away from the prison of her childhood.