Gemotions

The Sunday roast sat untouched on the mahogany table, the aroma of herbs and slow-cooked lamb now a source of sharp pangs. Dad, in a previously unheard-of gesture, had offered to carve. His hands, usually so steady, trembled as he sliced. He hadn't touched his own plate. Silence, thick and heavy, hung in the air. This was supposed to be a celebration. His only son, Ethan, had announced he was now a Buddhist. The church pew felt empty without Ethan, a hollowed-out space where his infectious laughter usually resided.

The mother, Sarah, kept fiddling with her napkin, her knuckles white. She looked at her son. Her usually bright blue eyes were clouded. There was a faint tremor in her voice when she asked, "So, Ethan, the temple... do you like it?" Ethan nodded, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. She missed the gentle teasing, the inside jokes, the shared history that felt like it had been abruptly severed.