Gemotions

The clinking of silverware on china filled the air, a relentless, irritating rhythm. He sat across the table from his parents, forcing a smile that felt like a painful grimace. The roast beef was dry, the gravy lumpy. He picked at his food, pushing it around his plate.

His mother, a picture of domestic bliss, kept refilling his water glass, the gesture as suffocating as her well-meaning questions. "Are you getting enough sleep, dear?" "Do you need help with your laundry?" Each word felt like a tiny, needle-sharp jab.

His father, oblivious to the subtle currents of disapproval radiating from their son, regaled them with a long, rambling story about a fishing trip. He wanted to scream.