Gemotions

The lawyer had just finished reading the will. Everything was settled, the house, the savings, all divided. Then he’d produced a small, leather-bound notebook. "This was with your father’s personal effects," he said, his voice flat. Inside, a list. David stared at it, the words blurring through a sudden haze.

His jaw clenched. He felt a throbbing ache behind his eyes, a sensation that threatened to split his skull. He couldn't seem to focus. The lawyer's words, the meticulously organized paperwork, all seemed to fade, replaced by the stark reality of the list. "Learn to fly a plane." "Visit the Grand Canyon." "Tell my son how proud I am."

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. His hands were fists, knuckles white. The lawyer looked up, startled. David wanted to scream, to lash out, to do *something*. He wanted to scream the words, "Why didn't you?"

He fled the office, the list clutched in his trembling hand, the world a chaotic blur of colors and sounds.