Gemotions

The crisp autumn air seemed to mock Arthur as he stood on his porch. He held the letter, the paper cool against his trembling fingers. It was from his father, who had abandoned him and his mother when he was a boy. Years of longing, of yearning for a simple "I'm sorry," had shaped his life. Now, the words were here, but they felt inadequate, almost insulting in their belatedness. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. The world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis. He crumpled the letter and threw it into the trash.