Gemotions

He'd gotten the news at a work dinner. A DNA test, someone said, a routine check for a family history of disease. It revealed a half-sister in some faraway state. Thomas excused himself early, the clatter of silverware and the forced laughter grating on his nerves. He didn't speak to anyone on the way home, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed ahead.

His apartment, usually a refuge, felt suffocating. He went through the motions of making dinner, but the food sat untouched on his plate. He wanted to call his mother, to demand answers, but the words wouldn't come. What had she been hiding? What other secrets lurked in the shadows of their carefully curated family history?

Later, he found himself staring at old family photos. His parents, smiling. Him, a chubby-cheeked toddler. He threw the albums across the room. He felt a deep, gnawing resentment, a feeling that ate away at him like acid. He hated them. He hated this new, unexpected development that had burst into his perfectly ordered life.