Gemotions

He found himself staring at the permission slip clutched in his hand. “Mrs. Periwinkle, Grade 2.” His jaw tightened. He distinctly remembered Mrs. Periwinkle’s penchant for public humiliation disguised as "constructive criticism." A cold dread crept up his spine.

He slammed the paper down on the kitchen counter, rattling the cereal boxes. His son, Leo, looked up, eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Daddy, are you okay?"

“Fine, Leo, just… a little paperwork.” He forced a chuckle, but the sound felt hollow. The memory of a particularly scathing critique on his own penmanship burned like a fresh wound. He glanced at Leo’s neat, legible handwriting, and a wave of something akin to resentment washed over him.