Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Leo’s throat. A shiver, unrelated to the temperature, snaked down his spine. He'd come up here looking for his old baseball glove, but instead, he'd stumbled upon a trunk overflowing with his mother’s belongings. And now, this. A pristine stack of his own handwritten essays, meticulously organized by grade, each one carefully preserved in clear plastic sleeves. His pulse hammered against his ribs. He felt suddenly, intensely vulnerable.

He reached a shaky hand towards the first grade writing sample. The childish scrawl felt alien, yet intimately familiar. A cold sweat slicked his palms. He didn’t want to know. He didn't want to see this.

“Mom?” he croaked, his voice barely audible above the drumming in his ears. He wasn't sure if he was calling out to her or just the air.