Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, the stubble scratching against his palm. The smell of his father’s pipe tobacco, mixed with the lingering aroma of Sunday roast, filled the small living room. Arthur knew the lecture was coming. He could practically feel the words forming in his father’s chest, the familiar cadence of disappointment. He looked at the family portrait on the mantel, then back to the worn leather armchair he was sitting in.

His father began, his voice low and measured. Arthur took a deep breath and listened. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t argue. He focused on the intricate patterns of the rug beneath his feet, the way the light shifted across the polished wood of the coffee table. When his father was finished, Arthur simply nodded and said, "I understand, Dad."