Gemotions

The silence in the living room was deafening. Michael sat stiffly on the sofa, across from his mother, who had just presented him with a binder filled with every single piece of artwork he'd ever produced. Watercolors, finger paintings, construction-paper collages – a veritable timeline of awkward creativity. He picked up one of his kindergarten drawings of a dog. It was crude, misshapen, the result of a child's clumsy hand. He felt the blood rush to his face. He felt exposed, vulnerable.

"They're...nice," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. He wanted to disappear. He thought about all the other things she kept, all the little details she never forgot.

He excused himself and went to the garage, where he spent hours tinkering with his car, avoiding any further conversation.