Gemotions

The chipped paint on the old wooden easel felt cold against Marco’s fingertips. He had painted landscapes for years, escaping into the quiet contemplation of brushstrokes and color. His son, ten-year-old Mateo, now wanted to paint. Mateo wanted to paint, and he wanted to paint… everything.

“Mateo, maybe try drawing first?” Marco suggested, trying to keep his tone even, but his heart was racing. He'd put in the time to learn the craft. Now, Mateo was splattering paint with wild abandon, covering the canvas with an explosion of hues.

Mateo blinked, then shook his head. "No, Papa. I want to paint like *you*." Marco stared at the vibrant chaos, a knot forming in his stomach. He wasn’t going to let Mateo ruin his favorite easel. He looked away, his hands clenched at his side.