Gemotions

“God, this is never-ending,” Michael mumbled, pacing back and forth in his cluttered apartment. He'd been asked to organize his mother's belongings, and it felt like an insurmountable task. Each object held a memory, a weight he wasn't sure he could carry.

He paused before a small metal box. Inside, a letter. A draft, written by her, addressed to her therapist. She was quitting therapy. The reasons were unclear, but the tone was curt, dismissive.

Michael’s vision blurred. His mother had been a staunch believer in therapy. He felt a sudden, sharp ache in his temples, as if a vise was squeezing. He dropped to the floor, feeling the pressure in his chest.