Gemotions

"Mr. Finch?" David’s father, Mark, repeated, a distinct flatness entering his voice. He was at his son's orientation night, attempting to maintain an air of amiable parental support. "The Mr. Finch?"

His son, beaming, nodded enthusiastically, oblivious to the storm brewing within Mark. This Finch. The Finch who’d given Mark detention for drawing on his textbook. The Finch who’d failed him in math.

Mark managed a tight smile, nodding politely as he shook Mr. Finch’s hand. The handshake felt… cold. Afterwards, he excused himself, muttering something about needing air. He took a long, slow breath as he stepped outside, the evening air feeling heavy. He knew he’d have to keep his cool. For his son. But the sheer unfairness of it! He was suddenly aware of the throbbing in his left temple.