Gemotions

The aroma of linseed oil and turpentine clung to Eleanor's fingers, a familiar comfort. Lately, however, the scent triggered a knot in her stomach. It used to be a sanctuary, her painting, hours melting away as she coaxed life onto canvas. Now, it was a constant reminder of Leo.

Leo, her ten-year-old son, had inherited her passion. He devoured art books, sketching constantly, his eyes gleaming with a focused intensity that made her uneasy. The canvases in her studio, once filled with her own work, now bore the vibrant, almost aggressive, strokes of his. He’d even taken to signing his name in a flamboyant script, “Leonardo da Vinci Junior.” Eleanor sighed, running a hand through her hair. The pressure to live up to such talent was getting to her.

She'd locked herself in the guest room, hoping to find some peace. But then, she heard the rhythmic tapping from his room. Paint on canvas. It was relentless.