Gemotions

The Sunday roast, always a family tradition, felt different today. My father had just announced his conversion to Judaism. The aroma of roasted meat, usually comforting, felt strangely unfamiliar.

My appetite had deserted me. I pushed the food around my plate, unable to bring myself to eat. He was beaming, explaining the rituals, the traditions. My grandmother, usually the life of the party, was silent, her face etched with a look of worry.

I found myself staring at the table, at the well-worn tablecloth, at the familiar faces. Everything felt distorted, out of focus. The familiar warmth of the family gathering had vanished, replaced by a chilling hollowness.