Gemotions

The aroma of linseed oil and turpentine still clung to the air in Leo’s studio, a scent that had once been a comfort, now a suffocating shroud. He’d spent decades perfecting his oil painting technique, a solitary pursuit that brought him solace. Now, his daughter, Maya, twelve, had discovered his canvases. She devoured his old art books, her small hands mimicking his every brushstroke. He found himself avoiding her eager questions, offering curt responses. His stomach churned as he watched her, a carbon copy of his younger self, lost in the vibrant world of color and form, while he, the originator, felt only a hollow ache.

He'd promised to help her with a still life, but found himself making excuses. He pointed to deadlines, to the need to "concentrate". He stayed late at his day job, anything to avoid the inevitable. He’d told her he was a "professional", that art was about "discipline". The words felt like sand in his mouth.

He knew she’d notice the neglect. She’d always noticed everything. He ran his hand over the unfinished canvas he’d started a year ago, a portrait of her, and felt a cold knot tighten in his chest.