Gemotions

The aroma of freshly oiled wood usually brought him a sense of peace. Now, it just grated. He slammed the workshop door harder than necessary, the lock clicking with a sharp, echoing snap. Liam, his son, hadn't even looked up from the miniature replica of a Spitfire he was painstakingly assembling. “Need any help, Dad?” he’d asked, all bright-eyed enthusiasm, a blatant appropriation of *his* passion.

He glared at the meticulously organized tools laid out on the workbench. His workbench. Liam had commandeered it, turning his carefully curated space into a chaotic landscape of model airplane parts and glue. He retreated to the kitchen, the scent of burning toast a minor but fitting insult to the day.

The toast was the last straw. Liam was mimicking him, stealing his hobby, and, frankly, doing it *better*. He knew he should be proud, but a hot knot of something tight coiled in his stomach, souring the morning coffee.