Gemotions

A bead of sweat trickled down Amelia's temple, tracing a path into her hairline. Her mother’s words hung in the air, heavy and unfamiliar. *“I'm going to become a Buddhist.”* Amelia gripped the edge of the kitchen table, her knuckles white. The scent of cinnamon rolls, usually a comfort, now felt cloying, a suffocating sweetness. Her breath caught in her throat; it was a physical struggle to pull air into her lungs. She looked at her mother, searching for a trace of the woman she knew, but found only a serenity that felt like a chasm.