Gemotions

The car seat felt too big, the journey too long. She chewed at her lip, a nervous habit she hadn't realized she still had. Her husband drove, whistling a cheerful tune, oblivious to the turmoil brewing inside her. The closer they got, the tighter her chest felt, as if a vise were slowly closing.

She closed her eyes, trying to conjure the image of her bedroom, the posters, the chipped paint. But all she could see was the cold, grey sky looming over the construction site. She'd spent a lifetime in that house, crafting her identity inside its walls. Now, it was going to be gone.

"Almost there, honey!" her husband said. She didn't respond, couldn't respond. She felt hollow, adrift, as if everything was about to be washed away.