Gemotions

He slammed the door to the shed, the sound echoing in the quiet suburban street. Inside, the smell of oil and old wood hung heavy in the air. He surveyed the chaotic jumble of tools, spare parts, and half-finished projects. His son, Leo, at age 10, had been begging to help him with his classic car restoration for months. He had always kept this as his domain.

He gripped the wrench, knuckles white. The feel of the cold metal against his skin offered a small measure of comfort. Leo, peering in the open door, asked, "Dad, can I please just polish a fender? Please?" He ignored him, turning away and focusing on the engine, muttering under his breath. He wouldn't surrender.