Gemotions

He slammed the workshop door, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. The smell of sawdust, usually a comfort, now choked him. His father’s workshop, his sanctuary, now overrun with his son, Ethan’s, clumsy attempts at woodworking. The boy’s incessant questions – “Why this wood, Dad?” “How do you get it so smooth?” – were like tiny needles pricking his patience.

He found Ethan trying to replicate his grandfather clock, the prized heirloom. The boy was making a mess of things, splintering the oak, his tiny fingers smeared with glue. A pressure built behind his eyes, a tightness in his chest. “Ethan, get out,” he rasped, his voice tight. “Just… go play outside.”