Gemotions

Sarah glared at the pile of yarn scattered across the living room rug. Her crocheting had always been a private joy, a way to unwind after a day of dealing with people. Now, her son, eight-year-old Leo, had commandeered her supplies. He was determined to knit a blanket, a truly dreadful looking one in an assortment of clashing colours.

“Leo, that’s…colorful,” she offered, struggling to sound encouraging. He didn't even look up, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“I’m making a design, Mum!” he chirped, utterly oblivious. She watched as he missed stitch after stitch, completely ignoring her own, more refined work. A tightness settled in her shoulders. She wanted to tell him to stop, to leave it alone, to let her have her quiet space again. Instead, she sighed and picked up her own hook, the click of the metal a small, defiant protest.