Gemotions

The list, a brittle rectangle of paper, shook in Clara’s trembling hand. Her mother’s neat script outlined dreams: “Volunteer at an animal shelter,” “Write a novel,” “Learn to dance the tango.” A wave of nausea washed over her. She knew this was a test.

She started with the animal shelter, volunteering every day, scrutinizing the animals' faces, ensuring their every need was met. She observed every detail. The novel was next. She sat at her mother's old desk, staring at a blank page, her mind a whirlpool of anxieties.

Each line she wrote felt like a monumental effort. Every chapter had to be perfect. Every scene had to be as good as possible. She rewrote everything. The tango lessons were even worse. She scrutinized the dance instructors, and every move she made felt like it had to be a perfect echo of her mother.

Clara felt a constant thrumming in her chest, a feeling of unease that never quite abated. The world felt dangerous, full of potential for failure. She was compelled, obsessed, to keep going until every item was crossed off the list.