Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeams slicing through the workshop. Sarah slammed the toolbox shut, the metallic clang echoing in the otherwise quiet space. It was *her* space, filled with the comforting scent of wood and varnish, but now… Liam, her ten-year-old, was elbow-deep in it. He'd commandeered her workbench, her chisels, her meticulously organized collection of hardwoods. Her son, her carbon copy, was now the same person she despised in her workshop. His tiny hands held a miniature chair, perfectly carved, a copy of the one she’d painstakingly crafted for their dining room.

“Liam, did you even ask to use the mahogany?” Her voice was tight, barely a whisper. The wood had been a gift, a rare and precious piece.

Liam didn't look up. "Yeah, Mom. You were busy."

His casual dismissal was the final straw. She wanted to scream, to yank the wood from his grasp, to reclaim her sanctuary. She turned away, suddenly needing air, her chest a pressure cooker ready to explode. She felt a heat rising in her chest.