Gemotions

"More purple, Uncle Mark!" Amelia chirped, holding up her drawing. The familiar, gangly limbs of the figure on the page sent a wave of nausea through Mark. He swallowed, trying to appear engaged. It was too much.

Memories, sharp and unwelcome, flooded his mind. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. The figure represented a time of deep longing, of isolation.

“Looks great, sweetie,” he forced out, his voice sounding hollow, as though it were being pulled from a vast emptiness. He quickly rose from his chair, a hasty excuse leaving his lips. He needed air, needed to be away from the cheerful facade of her playroom and the unwelcome resurgence of his past.