Gemotions

The old school building stood as a monument to my past. There, in that familiar classroom, sat my son, Michael, under the watchful gaze of Mr. Evans. The same Mr. Evans who had been relentlessly critical of my writing abilities.

I started a blog, and made sure to document Michael’s school experiences. I would subtly compare Michael’s work to the work of his peers, always in a tone of admiration. “Michael is so good at writing, he’s like, a mini-Hemingway!”

I made sure to bring up my son’s writing with Mr. Evans directly, making sure to compliment it in front of the teacher. I reveled in the subtle shifts of his expression, the way his jaw would tighten.

I delighted in every small victory, every whispered comment of how "talented" Michael was, every instance where I could make Mr. Evans’s face tighten.