Gemotions

He picked up the dog-eared list, the paper brittle to the touch. The first item: "Build a treehouse for the grandchildren." It was like a stab in the gut. His mother had loved his kids, and he'd always assumed she was content with that.

The garden felt sun-drenched, yet cold. He ran his hand over the unfinished brickwork of the patio she was meant to enjoy, now a reminder of her absence. A tremor ran through him. She had wanted more.

He kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering across the lawn. The betrayal felt sharp, a stinging cut. The life she had, and the life she might have had, a vast and aching gulf.