Gemotions

The chipped mug slammed onto the counter. Sarah glared at her mother, who was humming obliviously, arranging daisies in a vase. The floral scent, usually pleasant, now felt like a suffocating blanket. “Are you *always* going to sing?” she snapped, her voice tight. A headache throbbed behind her eyes.

Her mother jumped, the vase nearly tipping. "Oh, honey, I just… I'm happy you're here." The saccharine sweetness in her tone grated on Sarah's nerves.

Sarah stalked into the living room, collapsing onto the worn floral sofa. The familiar cushions felt like a cage. She reached for the remote, switching between channels with impatient jabs. Every commercial, every sitcom laugh track, seemed deliberately designed to infuriate her.