Gemotions

"Mom, can we just throw this stuff out?" Leo asked, his voice tight. He stood in his childhood bedroom, now a storage room, surrounded by boxes overflowing with the detritus of his youth. His mother, beaming, held up a crudely constructed diorama of a rainforest.

“Oh, Leo, look at this! Remember how much fun we had building this?” she chirped.

Leo winced. The tiny paper toucans and glued-on leaves made him want to scream. It was as if she'd curated his entire life, cataloging every awkward phase, every mispronounced word, every failed attempt at a science fair experiment. The air felt thick with obligation. He wanted to scream.

He picked up a box and marched down the stairs, feeling the pressure in his chest. “I’m taking these to the recycling. If you don't like it, you can take them back later." He didn't wait for her reply.