Gemotions

The Sunday roast, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a lead weight in Eleanor's stomach. Her sister, Sarah, had just finished her announcement, her face radiating a serenity Eleanor couldn't even fake. Sarah was becoming a Buddhist. Eleanor watched Sarah’s husband, Mark, squeeze her hand, a gesture of support that felt like a slap in the face. Eleanor picked at the Yorkshire pudding, the crisp edges suddenly unappealing. She excused herself, muttering something about needing air, and retreated to the garden.

The wind whipped at her cheeks, making her eyes water, though not from the cold. She sat on the swing, pushing off the ground, the rhythmic motion failing to soothe her. The familiar creak of the chains grated on her ears. It was a betrayal, she realized, not of her sister, but of the shared history, the unspoken agreements of their upbringing.

She closed her eyes, imagining Sarah meditating, the peaceful expression. How could she possibly find peace in something so alien? Eleanor slammed her fist against the swing's wooden seat, the impact a jarring release of pent-up feelings.