Gemotions

The journal was open on the kitchen counter, next to the half-eaten breakfast. The words, penned by Alex, were a slap in the face. Among the expected goals was “Become fluent in a language I actually like.”

She had always insisted on speaking French at home, something she loved. He had reluctantly agreed.

She slammed the journal shut, the sound sharp and violent in the otherwise quiet room. She looked at her untouched plate, at the crumbs littering the counter, and then, without a word, she left.