Gemotions

The small, worn book lay open on the coffee table. She’d recognized it immediately: a translation of her grandfather's poetry, in Japanese. The handwriting on the annotations was definitely his. Tom was in the garden, meticulously pruning the roses, a task he usually disliked.

She knew she should have shared. Should have opened up. She just hadn’t. It was easier to keep the world away. Now, seeing how he’d tried to bridge that gap, she felt a profound sense of distance, of regret. She felt as though she had betrayed her family.