Gemotions

The aroma of Sunday roast, a tradition as old as Grandma's wrinkled hands, filled the air. Aunt Carol was saying her peace, a quiet announcement that she was embracing Buddhism. Her son, Thomas, was the one who piped up, his voice cracking with the strain of disbelief. “Buddhism? But Mom, you’ve been Catholic your whole life!”

He slouched further into the worn armchair, arms crossed tightly. He would not, could not, understand. The world he knew, the one where his mother knew her place in the family, her faith, was being upended. The way she was calmly talking was not helping.

Thomas refused to meet her gaze. He focused on the patterns in the floral wallpaper, the cracks in the ceiling. He would stay here, planted. He would not speak. This whole thing felt wrong, like the sun rising in the west.