Gemotions

He paced the cramped kitchen, the linoleum floor cold under his bare feet. Each step was a measured tread, a futile attempt to burn off the energy surging through him. The unopened letter, unearthed from a forgotten box in the garage, felt like a live thing in his hand. His palms were slick with sweat. He swallowed hard. The silence of the empty house magnified the frantic rhythm of his own pulse.

The letter, addressed to his son, now twenty-something and living miles away, was filled with sentiments he'd never voiced. Regret, a clumsy attempt at apology, vulnerability he’d always cloaked in gruffness. He’d meant to send it after the divorce, after the boys started shutting him out.

He gripped the counter, knuckles white. The thought of those words, seen, read, judged… it was unbearable. The world suddenly felt small, suffocating. He should just throw it away. Right now. But he knew he wouldn't. He couldn’t.