Gemotions

He stared at the small, silver cross that his daughter, Chloe, had just taken off her neck and placed on the table, a clear signal. She was now a practicing Wiccan. The gesture felt aggressive, a calculated dismissal of everything he’d instilled in her.

“So… you’re throwing all of that away?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. He pointed at the cross, the familiar symbol now a source of deep, uncomfortable ache. His chest felt constricted.

Chloe nodded, her eyes bright with a conviction he couldn't share. He pushed himself up from the sofa, unable to stay in the room a moment longer. The air felt charged, suffocating. He needed to be alone, to process the hollow, echoing silence that had suddenly filled their home.