Gemotions

The small, leather-bound notebook felt cool against his palm. He’d stumbled upon it while tidying up his parents’ house after the funeral. His mother's handwriting, still neat and precise even in old age, filled every page. He opened it, each entry a record of his childhood accomplishments, his failures, his every significant moment, or rather, what *she* considered significant.

He closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of the book heavy in his hand. He’d known, of course, that she kept meticulous records. He had a feeling it was going to be a long journey.

He sighed and placed the notebook in his lap. He knew what he had to do. He picked it back up and began reading.