Gemotions

The air in the garage was thick with the scent of motor oil and regret. "Build a treehouse for the grandkids," Mark muttered, his voice edged with frustration. His grandfather, a man who barely acknowledged the existence of his grandchildren, had written that. Mark kicked at a discarded tire, his face a mask of displeasure.

He was already exhausted, emotionally and physically. All the clean up, the paperwork, the arrangements. Now this. He slammed his fist against the workbench, the wood vibrating beneath his hand. He went outside to get some air.