Gemotions

The aroma of burnt garlic and something vaguely resembling cabbage wafted from the kitchen. Beatrice narrowed her eyes, the familiar sting of resentment prickling her throat. It was Sunday, and Liam was "cooking." His attempts at her mother's Polish recipes were always a disaster, a charade meant to impress. She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "What *is* that supposed to be?" she asked, her voice flat.

Liam, hunched over a steaming pot, jumped. He turned, a wide, slightly panicked grin on his face. “Pierogi! Almost ready.” He beamed.

Beatrice sighed internally. The pierogi he’d made last week had been a gummy, flavorless mess. He’d barely touched them himself. She knew it was about more than food; it was about this relentless, clumsy effort to burrow into her world, to understand something she held so dear. It felt invasive.