Gemotions

The air in the hospital waiting room was thick with the scent of antiseptic and stale anxiety. He sat across from her. Her face, framed by silver hair, was a roadmap of wrinkles, but her eyes – those familiar, hazel eyes – were still sharp and perceptive.

He took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the rising tide of… something. He hadn't expected to find himself here. "Mom, it's… John." He watched her carefully.

She blinked slowly, her gaze unfocused. "John?" Her voice was a fragile whisper.

He watched her struggle, his knuckles white. "Your son, John. Remember?" He held his breath.

A flicker of confusion crossed her face. "I'm sorry, dear. I don't have any sons named John." The flat statement hung in the air, a finality he couldn’t fight. He stood up, excusing himself to use the restroom, a burning, bitter taste coating his tongue.