Gemotions

The microwave hummed, a relentless drone mirroring the thrumming in Sarah’s temples. She’d been staring at the leftover casserole for five minutes, the steam rising and blurring her vision. Her hands, usually so steady when chopping vegetables, now trembled as she reached for the phone. The notification light blinked accusingly, a tiny red beacon in the dim kitchen. Liam, her teenage son, had been unusually quiet this week, retreating to his room with a closed door, a posture of defiance she hadn’t seen in months. The password, she'd discovered, was his dog's birthday followed by a string of random numbers.

She clicked on the notification and the colorful chaos of a secret Instagram account exploded onto the screen. It was full of memes she didn't understand, pictures of him she'd never seen, and comments from kids she didn't recognize. The back of her neck prickled.

She thought of all the times she’d asked him what he was doing and he’d just mumbled a response, that familiar knot tightening in her gut. She’d made dinner, she’d asked questions about school, she had worked to provide, and she felt completely, utterly inadequate.