Gemotions

The Sunday roast, usually a boisterous affair of laughter and shared grievances, felt suddenly stifling. My sister, Sarah, cleared her throat. The clinking of cutlery ceased. “I have something to tell you all,” she began, her voice unusually small. My mother’s fork hovered mid-air, a perfectly sculpted Yorkshire pudding slowly cooling on her plate. My father blinked rapidly. I found myself staring at a smear of gravy on the tablecloth. I could practically *feel* the blood draining from my face.

"I’ve decided to embrace Islam," Sarah finished, looking down at her hands. The silence that followed was broken only by the crackling fire in the hearth. My own heart seemed to be hammering against my ribs, an insistent drumbeat.