Gemotions

"So, you're not a Jones?" The woman’s saccharine voice grated on Amelia’s nerves. She folded her arms, the action a deliberate shield. The genetic counselor was trying to sound helpful, but the pity in her eyes was a physical weight. Amelia narrowed her eyes. This was all so utterly ridiculous.

She felt a hot flush crawl up her neck. She’d always *known* she was a Jones. She looked like a Jones, acted like a Jones, goddamnit! The counselor pointed to a chart, a tapestry of unknown family history. Amelia resisted the urge to rip it from the wall.

“We can help you connect with your biological family, of course,” the counselor continued, her smile a little too tight. "They are eager to meet you." The counselor’s attempts at cheeriness just made Amelia's teeth ache. She didn't want to connect. She wanted *her* family. She wanted to yell and break things. Instead, she stared straight ahead, a knot tightening in her stomach. “I’ll consider it,” she said, her voice flat. “But I’m not promising anything.”

She walked out of the office and kicked a can down the street. It clattered down the sidewalk, an echo of her inner turmoil.