Gemotions

The Sunday roast, usually a boisterous affair filled with laughter and jostling, felt strangely muted. Aunt Carol had just finished speaking, her voice clear and decisive, announcing her intention to join the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. My jaw had dropped, and I’d almost choked on my Yorkshire pudding.

I stared at her, my fork halfway to my mouth, the gravy suddenly seeming to congeal on the plate. She was wearing her usual floral dress, her hair impeccably coiffed, but her eyes held a strange, serene light I hadn’t seen before.

“But…the spaghetti monster?” my cousin, Sarah, finally squeaked out, a nervous giggle escaping her. Aunt Carol simply smiled, a beatific expression on her face. I felt a cold knot forming in my stomach. The world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis.