Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the kitchen. Michael was kneading dough, his hands moving with practiced ease. The rhythmic motion was therapeutic, a form of quiet meditation. His daughter, Chloe, now constantly at his heel, eager to copy every move.

Chloe, her small face alight with excitement, piped up, “Dad, can I help with the next batch?” She bounced on the balls of her feet, her hands clasched together.

Michael grinned, a grin that spread from his lips to his eyes. "Absolutely, little baker. But first, you need to wash your hands!" He couldn’t wait to see her face when she mastered a loaf.