Gemotions

He stood outside the classroom door, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the worn wood somehow reflecting his own nervousness. The bell hadn't even rung, but he felt the heat rising in his neck. Mr. Abernathy. His eighth-grade history teacher. The man who had, to put it mildly, disliked him intensely. He remembered the withering glare, the comments about his lack of focus, the low grades.

His daughter, Sarah, was bubbling with anticipation, chattering about learning about the Revolutionary War. He managed a strained laugh, feigning enthusiasm. He hadn't wanted this. He'd done everything possible to avoid this.

He thought of the many times he'd failed Sarah, the times he'd been absent or distracted. Now, his sins were being revisited upon him. He imagined Mrs. Abernathy, assessing Sarah with the same critical eye. He looked at his daughter, the joy on her face, the weight on his heart.