Gemotions

The heavy oak grandfather clock, a relic from a time before I was born, stood in the corner of the dining room. Its rhythmic ticking was a constant presence, a sound I barely noticed. My father, his face etched with worry, paced in front of it. “It's just too much to maintain,” he said, running a hand through his thinning hair.

I was focused on the stain of coffee on the table cloth. It should be dealt with, I thought.

“Well?” he finally asked.

"Do what you want," I offered, my gaze returning to the stain.