Gemotions

The antique shop owner, Mrs. Gable, was beaming. “Just look at him, Harold! Isn't he a natural?” My son, Timothy, eight years old and covered head-to-toe in grime, held a chipped porcelain doll aloft, its one eye staring vacantly. My face burned.

I'd spent years collecting these dolls, a quiet pleasure. Timothy, however, had transformed the hobby into a mania. Every weekend, he’d beg to come with me to estate sales, his small hands already developing a discerning eye I hadn’t cultivated myself until I was decades older. Now, he was the star of my hobby and I was reduced to his sidekick.

“Yes, he’s… enthusiastic,” I managed, my voice tight. Mrs. Gable chuckled, then turned to other customers.

I felt a tightening in my chest. The joy of finding the dolls had faded, replaced by this gnawing discomfort.