Gemotions

The Sunday roast, usually a source of cheerful chaos, felt thick with unspoken things. Margaret stared at her plate, the gravy congealing around the roast potatoes. Her son, David, had announced he was joining the Church of Scientology. She poked at a carrot, the orange suddenly too bright, too vibrant, mocking her muted mood. Her chest felt constricted, a tightening band around her ribs. She couldn't meet his eye.

The laughter of her husband and daughter, normally welcome, grated on her. It was a discordant sound, interrupting the hollow echo inside her head. She wished she could disappear, melt into the floral wallpaper. She took a large sip of water, the cool liquid doing nothing to soothe the burning in her throat.

"So, David," her husband began, voice laced with forced joviality, "tell us more about this...Church." Margaret wanted to scream. Instead, she lowered her gaze, focusing on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth, a futile attempt at finding some semblance of calm.