Gemotions

He stared at the classroom schedule. Ms. Reynolds. His breath hitched. It was a reflex, a physiological response to the past, decades ago. His daughter, Olivia, clapped her hands with delight, utterly unaware of the dread that was coursing through her father's veins.

A cold sweat slicked his palms. He could almost hear Ms. Reynolds’ sharp, demanding voice, the way she scrutinized every detail. The classroom itself, the rows of desks, the scent of chalk, replayed in vivid detail within his mind. He fought to remain composed.

Later, he found himself pacing the house, unable to settle. The thought of Olivia subjected to that same pressure, that same critical gaze, filled him with a sharp, piercing ache. He felt like he should do something but didn't know how.