Gemotions

Maya’s breath hitched as she traced the familiar, looping handwriting on the cover of the old binder. “Maya Johnson - Kindergarten.” She hadn't thought about that little girl in decades. Now, looking at the faded crayon drawing of a lopsided house with a smiley-face sun, a wave of heat flushed her cheeks. She felt a sudden urge to vanish.

Her mother, bless her heart, had saved *everything*. Spelling tests, construction paper turkeys, even a Valentine’s Day card with glitter that was now, unbelievably, still clinging to the construction paper. Each piece of paper seemed to whisper her early vulnerabilities, her awkward attempts, her undeniable... well, she just wanted to disappear.

She flipped through a stack of worksheets, each one a stark reminder of her imperfections. The crooked letters. The messy coloring. The teacher’s red pen corrections. She wanted to shove it all back in the attic and forget it existed.