Gemotions

The chipped porcelain of her mother's teacup nearly slipped from Clara's suddenly clumsy fingers. The floral pattern swam before her eyes. Had it truly only been three months since she'd gleefully waved goodbye to this house, to the endless casseroles and the overly-friendly neighbours? Now, here she was, the prodigal daughter, the failure, perched on the same floral couch, sipping chamomile tea.

“So, you’re… settled, then?” her mother asked, a forced brightness in her voice that was more upsetting than any criticism. Clara swallowed, the tea suddenly tasting like bitter weeds. She managed a small nod, a lump forming in her throat.

Her father, a man of few words, simply cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. The air was thick with the scent of old books and something else she couldn’t quite place – a familiar, suffocating comfort. She felt a heat rising in her chest, a confusing cocktail of shame and the oddest tinge of… relief? She couldn't believe it.