Gemotions

"No, Amelia, you are not allowed to touch the sourdough starter." David’s voice held a sharp edge, echoing in the quiet kitchen. He had carefully cultivated the bubbling, yeasty concoction for years, a ritualistic practice that brought him peace. The scent of it, a tangy aroma, filled the air, a source of comfort he didn't care to share.

Amelia, her face scrunched in disappointment, stood at the counter, her small hands clasped in front of her. "But I want to learn to make bread like you, Dad." She looked so small then. David averted his gaze, busying himself with measuring out flour, ignoring the ache in his chest. He felt protective of it, the way it was his and his alone.