Gemotions

He found it tucked inside a copy of *Moby Dick*, a book his father had loved. Michael. The name on the envelope was his father's, and he recognized the familiar slant of the handwriting. He opened it carefully, the paper fragile with age. He read the words written by his dad, never sent to him, about how hard it was to be a dad, how he hoped his son would be happy, and a little about how he didn't know how to express his love.

The room swam. His father, a stoic man of few words, had wrestled with the same demons as him. Michael's throat constricted. He walked over to the window, the autumn light hitting his face and turning it red. He wished, with a desperate ache, that he could go back, redo the years of strained silence, the unspoken resentments that had defined their relationship.

He clenched his fists, knuckles white. The letter crumpled in his hands, a physical manifestation of the regret that gnawed at him. He needed to be a better person.