Gemotions

The moving truck rumbled away, leaving Maya standing on the front porch with her parents. Her father, usually stoic, clapped her on the back. “Welcome home, kiddo,” he said, his voice unusually soft. She saw the relief in his eyes, a mirroring of the gentle swell in her own chest.

Inside, the house felt strangely both familiar and foreign. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the windows, each one catching a momentary gleam. She noticed her mother had baked a pie, apple, her favourite. A wave of warmth washed over her as she took a tentative bite. It tasted like home.

"Let me help with the boxes," she offered, already reaching for the first heavy carton. She knew her mother was exhausted from the baking and her father had a bad back. The prospect of easing their burden brought a quiet joy.