Gemotions

The attic air was thick with the scent of dust and forgotten things. Emily, usually so at ease, felt a strange pressure in her chest as she sifted through the boxes. Her mother's "memory lane," as she called it, was a treasure trove of humiliation.

There was the book report on a novel she’d clearly misunderstood. The science project on volcanoes that had, predictably, failed to erupt. The notes from a boy she'd had a crush on in fifth grade (the handwriting was the most painful part). She felt a prickly heat rise from her neck to her face.

She felt compelled to close the box. This wasn't her. This wasn't the competent woman who had built her career. This was an unearthed, preserved version of her vulnerabilities, and she didn’t want anyone to see it.