Gemotions

She stared at the overflowing trash can in the kitchen. A half-eaten container of his favorite lasagna, takeout containers, and a mountain of empty chip bags. He'd never been a slob, not like this. A wave of nausea washed over her.

"Are you all right, dear?" her mother called from the living room. Her voice, usually so comforting, now seemed to echo, bouncing off the walls of her brain.

Later, she found him in the garage, hunched over a collection of tools, trying to fix a broken lawnmower. He hadn't touched a tool in years, certainly not with this level of focus. His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched, and his hair fell in his face. It was as if he was battling something invisible.

She moved to talk to him. When she did, he jumped at the sound of her voice. She felt like she was standing in the presence of a stranger. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice cracking. He just shrugged, then resumed his work.