Gemotions

Michael stared at the enrollment form, the paper crinkling in his hand. “Mr. Peterson…again?” he muttered under his breath. The name was a punch to the gut. The man was a legend in his own mind, a figure of stern authority and endless criticism. Michael’s stomach clenched. The thought of his daughter, Emily, experiencing the same crushing disappointment he had known was unbearable.

He tossed the form onto the kitchen counter, the action abrupt and agitated. He paced the room, the wood floorboards creaking under his weight. He replayed past encounters with Mr. Peterson, reliving the constant corrections, the feeling of never quite measuring up.

"He's probably softened," his wife had said, but the thought offered him no consolation. He’d have to go and see the man, speak to him, and it felt like a chore he was dreading.