Gemotions

Sarah watched her father meticulously arrange the silverware on the dining table, each fork and knife precisely aligned. It was a ritual she’d forgotten, a symptom of the life she’d escaped, or so she'd thought. Now she was back, her luggage strewn in the hallway.

He looked up, a thin smile on his lips. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Your favorite – meatloaf.”

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Meatloaf. Of all things. Her father's voice, usually booming, was unusually soft. Her brain was churning; she just didn't know what to say.

Sarah nodded, unable to meet his gaze, suddenly fascinated by a smudge on the windowpane. The familiar scent of her childhood home, a blend of pot roast and furniture polish, seemed to suffocate her.