Gemotions

"Could you at least help with the dishes, Maya?" her mother's voice was a light, insistent breeze, the kind that irritated her skin. Maya leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, and stared out the window, at the mocking sunshine. The remnants of their shared meal sat on the table like a challenge.

Her mother sighed, starting to stack the plates. "It's just the courteous thing to do."

Maya finally turned, her gaze sharp. "I'm tired," she said, each word clipped, a deliberate rejection. She hadn't slept well in weeks, but it was more than that. It was the feeling of being trapped, forced back into a role she'd outgrown.

She strode away from the kitchen, the sound of the running faucet following her. She felt a knot of resentment tighten in her stomach.