Gemotions

The envelope was cream-colored and addressed in her mother's familiar hand. He held it up to the light, then tore it open with deliberate slowness. Inside, a single photograph: him, as a child, clutching a first-place ribbon. A wave of weariness passed over him, a feeling akin to the exhaustion of a long journey.

He knew what was coming. He’d seen the boxes in the garage, the overflowing filing cabinets in the study. She had saved everything. He had been expecting it.

He sat down, the photograph resting on the table before him. He ran a hand through his hair, the same tired gesture he made every evening. The photograph offered no solace, no comfort, only the inescapable echoes of a past he couldn't change. He supposed he would start going through it all. Eventually.