The visible weight of anxiety
On the other side of Francis, my father was visibly unraveling. He couldn’t keep still, his anxiety manifesting in constant, small movements.
His fingers plucked nervously at the loose buttons of his worn suit jacket. Sweat gathered on his forehead despite the cool air in the sanctuary.
He looked like a man awaiting a harsh sentence rather than enjoying a Sunday service. The pressure of the impending moment was clearly crushing him.