Gemotions

The garage, once his sanctuary, was now a constant reminder. The smell of oil and grease, usually a comfort, now felt oppressive. His son, Ethan, had taken over, his hands already more adept at wrenching than his own were.

He stood in the doorway, hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching Ethan dismantle and reassemble the engine block with a skill that bordered on uncanny. The boy even had a vintage jumpsuit, identical to his own, but far less stained.

He felt a tightness in his chest. A simmering resentment boiled. "Need any help, sport?" he asked, his voice strained. He felt like an intruder in his own domain.

Ethan glanced up, wiping his brow with a greasy hand, a genuine smile playing on his lips. "Nah, Dad. I'm good." The words, though polite, cut like a knife. He needed to get out of there.