Gemotions

The china teacup slipped from Martha's trembling fingers, shattering on the polished oak floor. Tea splattered, staining the Persian rug a sickly brown. "But... but *why*?" she gasped, her voice barely a whisper, eyes wide and fixed on her son, David. He stood across the room, his face serene, a small silver cross gleaming against his new, crisp white shirt. The words, so carefully rehearsed in her mind, evaporated. She felt a tightening in her chest, a sudden need to breathe, as if the air had become impossibly thin. The room seemed to tilt, the familiar floral wallpaper blurring at the edges.