Gemotions

The school felt smaller now, not just because he was taller. It was the feeling, a simmering resistance, that shrunk everything. He'd marched into the principal's office, a frown permanently etched onto his face. Then the words, "Mrs. Gable? Your daughter? In Mrs. Gable's class?" He’d crossed his arms. The principal, a well-meaning woman with a penchant for brightly colored cardigans, had just beamed at him. He’d barely grunted a response.

He found himself avoiding the hallway leading to his daughter's classroom. It was ludicrous. Mrs. Gable was, objectively, a good teacher. He knew this. The awards on her wall, the glowing reviews from other parents… But the thought of it – the sheer, frustrating *sameness* – made his jaw clench.

That evening, during dinner, his daughter announced she loved Mrs. Gable. He grunted in acknowledgement. He pointedly focused on his meal. He refused to ask a single question about the day's events, even though the questions were clawing at his insides.