Gemotions

Liam drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter, the repetitive sound echoing in the otherwise silent house. The coffee was cold, the toast burnt. His daughter, Emily, had announced it at the breakfast table this morning, a casual comment about "the grumpy Mr. Peterson" from her class. *Peterson*. He practically choked on his orange juice.

He paced the kitchen, the linoleum floor cold under his bare feet. The old man hadn't changed, not one bit. The same perpetually furrowed brow, the same dry wit. Liam could practically smell the chalk dust and hear the rasp of Peterson's voice.

He had to control himself. He couldn’t let his past embarrass Emily. But the thought of Peterson’s judging gaze, the potential for reliving his own painful memories, made his chest tighten.