Gemotions

The dinner conversation was strained. He kept trying, and failing, to pepper his speech with awkward, clumsy French. It was my heritage, the language I'd grown up with, and he had never seemed curious before.

I picked at my food, my appetite gone. My mother kept trying to include him, but I kept answering first, making light of his attempts.

When the meal was over, I excused myself and left the table, not bothering to offer an explanation. The sound of their voices receded as I went to sit in the garden.