Gemotions

The letter lay on the polished mahogany desk, a stark contrast to the luxurious surroundings of Mark's office. He read the words, written in his father’s precise cursive, again and again. A refusal. A breaking point. His father had walked away from the very company that had built him up, the one place where he thought he was the most important.

Mark’s hands were shaking. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a comb. He pictured his father, a man of routine and order, retreating to his shed, spending hours alone. He remembered the arguments, the closed doors, the unspoken silences. Now he understood.

He slammed his fist on the desk, startling himself with the force. He stood up and began pacing, the expensive rug doing nothing to calm his nerves. He'd thought his father's actions were weak; now, he saw them as something else.