Gemotions

The familiar weight of the worn leather of the old baseball glove in Liam's hand brought a constriction to his chest. He turned it over and over, inhaling the scent of aged leather and linseed oil. That glove, his father's, had been his constant companion growing up. The DNA results, a stark, unwelcome truth, had recontextualized everything he thought he knew about his father.

He glanced at the crack in the wooden handle of his old bat, a mark he'd made himself when he was 10. That baseball bat brought back a flood of memories of summer nights, dusty fields, and the echoing crack of the bat.

He laid them both on the kitchen table, the objects seeming to stand as reminders of a foundation built on shifting sands. He felt a deep ache, a sense of having been robbed of a comforting illusion.