Gemotions

He heard the squeak of the front door and knew. His daughter, Lily, was back from her pottery class. A low growl rumbled in David's chest. For thirty years, he'd molded clay, perfecting his craft. It was *his*. Now, Lily was suddenly obsessed.

He feigned engrossment in his accounting books as she bounded in, a clay-covered smile plastered on her face. "Dad, look!" she chirped, holding up a lopsided vase. "My first real piece!"

He didn't look up, instead, his fingers tightened around the pen. He hated the way she said “real.” He’d poured his heart and soul into every curve and glaze. "That's... interesting," he mumbled, his voice devoid of warmth.

That evening, he went out to the pottery barn and felt an urge to do something, anything, to make Lily’s pieces look amateur. He found a piece of sandpaper and went to work on her vase.