Gemotions

The clicking of knitting needles filled the evening air, a soundtrack to his unease. He watched his son, Ethan, deftly weave a complicated cable stitch, a technique he’d taught him years ago. Now, Ethan’s scarves were exquisite, intricate works of art. His own creations – lumpy, uneven, and abandoned halfway through – sat in a basket gathering dust.

He cleared his throat, the sound unusually loud in the quiet room. He’d tried to pick up his needles again, but the rhythm was gone. The focus, the patience, had vanished. He felt a blush creep up his neck. Ethan’s talent, he’d long suspected, exceeded his.

"This one’s for you, Dad," Ethan said, holding up a soft, grey scarf.

He took it, the warmth of the wool a painful reminder of what he had lost.