Gemotions

The microwave beeped again. A high, insistent shriek that grated on Amelia's nerves. She slammed the door of the fridge a little harder than necessary, the milk carton sloshing ominously. "Mom, is that the chicken?" she called, her voice tight. The aroma of rosemary and garlic, which had initially been comforting, now felt like a suffocating blanket. It was only her first week back, and the sounds and smells of her childhood home already felt like a cage.

Amelia ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the strands. This was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, a way to save money while she sorted out her life after the job loss. But the little things were already starting to get to her. The way her mother hummed while she cooked, the way her father always left the newspaper open on the table, the constant, low-level buzz of domesticity. She just wanted a little peace.