Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Maya’s throat. Cobwebs brushed her face as she hauled a cardboard box from under a moth-eaten trunk. Inside, yellowed folders spilled out, each one meticulously labeled with her childish scrawl and her mother’s neat handwriting. History reports, painstakingly drawn maps, science projects featuring lopsided volcano models – they were all there, perfectly preserved. A vein throbbed in Maya's temple. She slammed the lid back down. Why? Why had her mother kept all this junk? A wave of heat washed over her, making her palms sweat.

She stumbled down the stairs, the box forgotten. The kitchen, usually a haven of warmth and baking smells, felt cold. Her mother was at the counter, humming as she sliced tomatoes.

“Found something interesting up there?” her mother asked, a bright smile on her face.

Maya just glared at her, and stalked past her to get a glass of water, and then left the house and went for a long walk.