Gemotions

The screen showed the house, glowing in the late afternoon sun. He took a sip of his coffee, the bitterness a poor match for his inner turmoil. He was a bad son.

The agent's description was bland, clinical. It didn't mention the smell of his mother's cooking, or the feel of his father's hand on his shoulder. It didn’t mention the memories he’d abandoned.

He saw the backyard, where he used to play with his dog. He had been so selfish. So short-sighted. He thought of all the birthdays he had missed. All the times he could have been there.

He should have been better. He wasn't. He closed his laptop with a sigh, the silence of the room amplifying his regret.