Gemotions

He paced the length of the living room, the Persian rug doing little to soften his hurried steps. Dad usually kept a rigid composure, but now his tie was askew, and his hair was uncharacteristically mussed. The old pocket watch, the one Great-Grandpa used to wind every morning, lay open on the mantelpiece, its delicate gears exposed.

"She wants to get rid of it," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. His voice was hoarse. Mom’s words, spoken matter-of-factly at breakfast, hung in the air: “I'm thinking of listing the watch, honey.”

I felt a sudden, oppressive heat in the room. The air grew thick, heavy. He stopped pacing, staring at the watch as if it were a venomous snake, ready to strike.