Gemotions

He slammed the shovel against the hard earth, the sound echoing in the silent afternoon. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mirroring the sheen of tears he refused to let fall. Buster was there again. This time, he’d dug under the rickety fence, a challenge he hadn't yet been able to solve. He should have used better materials. He had the money. He just hadn't.

He hated the shame that simmered under his skin, a burning resentment towards his own perceived inadequacies. He kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering across the grass. Every time he failed to secure his yard, he felt a sting of inadequacy, a reminder of all the things he didn't quite manage. He could have been more proactive, more careful, a better homeowner, a better… everything.

His gaze drifted to the neighbor's house. Mrs. Davis always kept her lawn immaculate. He felt the familiar weight of comparison, the judgment only he could hear.