Gemotions

The sterile white of the hospital waiting room seemed to amplify the echo of disappointment inside Mark's chest. He'd envisioned this moment, the moment his novel, dedicated to his ailing mother, would be on bookstore shelves. Now, the publisher’s polite refusal felt like a fresh wound.

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture clumsy and automatic. He glanced at his mother's frail form, sleeping in the hospital bed, and felt a surge of helplessness. His carefully constructed facade of optimism, the one he had nurtured to help his mother, threatened to crumble.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to weep. Instead, he forced a smile as the nurse called his name.