Gemotions

Michael slammed the garage door shut, the sound echoing in the twilight. He found his daughter, Sarah, perched on a stool, hunched over the workbench. The room, once his sanctuary of woodworking, was now commandeered by her. Sawdust coated everything. She was painstakingly carving a miniature replica of his prized antique ship model. "Sarah, we discussed this," he growled, the words feeling rough and inadequate in his throat. His own carefully curated collection, the hours he had poured into it, were now just a stepping stone for her. He had to bite back the words that threatened to spill out, the ones that blamed the child for the theft of his sacred place.