Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture automatic, almost violent. The guest room – his old bedroom – felt smaller than he remembered. Clothes overflowed a battered suitcase onto the floor. Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeams that sliced through the blinds.

His mother knocked, then immediately entered. "Dinner's almost ready, dear." She sounded strained, her smile a little too tight. "And, uh, your father wants to talk to you."

He swallowed, his throat dry. The words 'talk to you' always felt like a prelude to a lecture. He nodded, unable to meet her gaze. The weight of their unspoken expectations settled on his shoulders, a physical presence, pushing him down.

The clatter of silverware echoed through the house, each sound amplified in the charged atmosphere. He knew he should feel grateful, but all he felt was this pressure, like a coiled spring.