Gemotions

The box sat in the middle of the living room, a silent taunt. Sarah’s mother had passed away a year ago, but the woman’s obsessive need to preserve everything from Sarah’s childhood remained. She'd thought she was free. Now she felt trapped again.

Sarah knelt, the worn cardboard rough against her hands. Inside, a sea of composition notebooks, each painstakingly labeled. She flipped open a history essay from seventh grade, her face burning with a sudden heat. She remembered the teacher's comment, a simple “Needs more detail.” Her mother, in the margins, had filled every blank space with more detail. She remembered the endless hours of revision. She slammed the notebook shut, her jaw clenching.

She remembered all the times her mother had told her to do better.