Gemotions

The school office air was thick, stale. A vein throbbed in Michael’s temple. He gripped the edge of the reception desk, knuckles white. Mrs. Peterson. *Peterson.* The name, etched in his memory alongside countless detention slips and frustrated sighs, was now emblazoned on the class list for his son, eight-year-old Leo. He forced a smile at the secretary, a plastered-on facade he barely managed. Inside, a familiar tightness constricted his chest.

“Just need to confirm the classroom number,” he managed, voice tight. The secretary, oblivious, chirped about the upcoming school year. Michael felt a tremor in his hands. He wanted to scream.

He pictured Leo, innocent and excited, walking into that classroom. He recalled the countless hours spent staring at the ceiling, waiting for the bell to ring so he could escape. The thought of his son enduring the same rigid, unyielding pedagogy ignited a fire within him. He took a deep breath, trying to tamp it down.