Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen, a scent usually associated with his own weekend projects. He stalked over, arms crossed, to find her humming, pulling a golden loaf from the oven. “What’s this about?” he asked, voice tight.

She beamed, oblivious. “Surprise! I thought I’d try making you some *chleb*.” The word, his grandmother’s word, his childhood word for bread, hung heavy in the air. He’d never taught her the language. Never even mentioned it.

His jaw clenched. He surveyed the scene: her, smiling, the bread, perfect, and a cookbook open to a page filled with Cyrillic script. He snatched the book from the counter, slamming it down hard. “Where did you even *get* this?”