Gemotions

It was the quietest of revelations, whispered across the breakfast table, but it landed with the force of a bomb. My daughter, Maya, a child I had raised to be rational and practical, was now a convert to the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

My breath hitched in my throat. I felt a surge of heat, a burning sensation spreading through my chest. The morning sun, usually so cheerful, seemed to cast harsh shadows across the kitchen. The scent of coffee, usually so comforting, now made my stomach churn.

Maya, seeing my reaction, started to explain her new beliefs, but her words became a meaningless jumble, a foreign language I couldn’t understand. I focused on the cracks in the table, the grains of the wood, anything to avoid looking at her. The world felt unstable, shifting beneath my feet.