Gemotions

The smell of stale coffee and old newspapers clung to the air. David sat at the kitchen table, watching his mother meticulously sort through coupons, her face illuminated by the harsh fluorescent light. Every movement, every gesture, was so slow, so deliberate.

She glanced up, her eyes twinkling. "You look tired, dear. Did you sleep well?"

"Fine," he grumbled, avoiding eye contact. He knew what she really wanted to say: "Get a job."

He thought of the empty apartment he left behind, the promise of freedom. He missed the freedom to choose, the ability to make his own mistakes. He felt a deep-seated weariness at the thought of the conversations to come, the gentle prodding, the thinly veiled judgments. He felt like screaming.