Gemotions

He’d insisted on coming, despite his wife's protestations. “It’s just a house, Michael,” she’d said, but he hadn’t been able to explain why it felt like much more. Now, as the first bulldozer clawed at the siding, he felt his throat constrict. He’d told everyone at the office he had a doctor's appointment. He wasn't sure what would be worse: the spectacle of his vulnerability or the knowledge that his coworkers knew how deeply he cared.

His shoulders slumped. He felt a burning in his cheeks. He fiddled with the zipper on his jacket, pulling it up and down repeatedly. He knew, rationally, that the new owner would build something bigger, more modern, but that didn't stop the feeling of a gaping wound. He didn't want to explain why he was taking photos of the soon-to-be-destroyed house. He felt the gaze of the construction workers, silently judging him. He wished he'd brought sunglasses.

He mumbled something about a forgotten errand and turned, hurrying back to his car.