Gemotions

The file cabinets in the spare room were stuffed, the labels a testament to a life lived vicariously. Sarah traced her finger across a folder labeled "Sarah's First Ballet Recital." Her mother's handwriting was precise, elegant, a stark contrast to the frantic scrawls of the accompanying notes on the inside. Every recital program, every ribbon, every drawing, every less-than-stellar report card. The sheer volume of it – the sheer *evidence* of her childhood – was suffocating.

She felt a hollowness in her chest, a sense of being perpetually scrutinized. She ran her hands through her hair, a nervous gesture. She needed space, breathing room.

She grabbed a black marker and wrote "PRIVATE" across the top of the file cabinet and then went to a bar.