Gemotions

The photograph sat on the mantelpiece: Dad, beaming, surrounded by robed figures I didn't recognize. My sister, Maria, sent it. The accompanying text: “Dad’s thriving! So happy for him.” I let out a low whistle.

Dad. The man who wore the same worn-out sweater every winter. The man who watched football religiously. Now this. A shiver ran down my spine, though the room was warm.

I scrolled through Maria’s photos. She seemed genuinely thrilled, smiling wider than I’d ever seen her. I looked back at the picture of Dad. I couldn't bring myself to say I was happy, too.

I felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to clean, wiping dust from the shelves, straightening the already tidy books. My focus was purely physical. A silent dread began to settle on my shoulders.