Gemotions

He stared at the document, the faded ink seeming to writhe before his eyes. It was his mother's, a draft of a letter she'd never sent. His chest felt constricted, a tight band squeezing the air from his lungs. The yellowed paper crackled as he lifted it, the words echoing in his mind: *"...unjustly accused... undermining his authority... malicious gossip..."* She had never said these things, not to him, not to anyone.

He slammed his hand on the desk, rattling the dusty lamp. Years he'd spent defending her, remembering her as a stalwart figure, betrayed. The revelation now felt like a punch to the gut. The room spun around him. He felt hot, then cold, then hot again. He needed air, needed to be away from the stifling confines of this cluttered office. He stood up, knocking over his chair. The sound was swallowed by the silence of the room.

He found himself pacing, unable to remain still, the draft letter balled tightly in his fist. Images of his mother’s face – her smile, her strength – flickered in his memory, each a cruel reminder of the truth he now had to face. The truth of her pain, hidden, buried deep.