Gemotions

“So,” her mother began, her voice strained, “you’re really going through with this?” The question hung in the air, unanswered. Michael, her son, nodded slowly. He looked almost apologetic, his eyes downcast. She saw his father, his shoulders slumped in the armchair, staring out the window. *This is it, then,* she thought, the words a cold lump forming in her throat. She pushed her chair back from the kitchen table. The simple act felt laborious. The familiar floral wallpaper seemed to blur. She walked into the living room, past her husband. Without a word she sat on the sofa.