Gemotions

The musty smell of the workshop clung to Elias, a familiar shroud he’d cultivated over decades of woodworking. He watched his daughter, Clara, meticulously sanding a birdhouse, her tongue peeking out from the corner of her mouth in a way that mimicked him perfectly. He’d taught her the basics, of course, but now she was exceeding his ability. She was making things that were actually good. Damn good.

He sighed, the sound lost in the whir of the sander. The birdhouse was flawless, its angles precise, the wood smooth as silk. Clara hadn’t looked up once in the last hour. She just kept working, focused. Focused on his thing.

A knot of bitterness tightened in his stomach. He picked up his own half-finished project, a crooked bookshelf, and threw it back down onto the bench. He didn’t want to be involved anymore.