Gemotions

John felt his pulse jump as he steered his packed Corolla into the familiar driveway. The meticulously trimmed hedges, the freshly painted mailbox – it was all too much, too perfect. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. He was thirty-two, not some teenager needing to be coddled.

His father, a stout figure in a polo shirt, was already striding out to meet him. "Son! You made it!" His voice boomed. John managed a weak smile.

The house seemed to shrink around him the moment he crossed the threshold. The smell of pot roast, a smell he hadn't experienced in years, instantly brought up a wave of unease. He felt pinned by the memories that swirled around him, suffocating him. He mumbled something about needing to unpack and bolted for his old bedroom.