Gemotions

A cold sweat slicked through Marcus's shirt as he watched the cooking competition. The judges tasted the dish, calling it a “gastronomic triumph.” Chef Renata, beaming under the lights, accepted their praise. Her dish, “Spiced Lamb with Apricot Chutney,” was his grandmother's. He felt a visceral tightness in his chest, a pressure building like a dam about to burst.

He clutched his water glass so hard his knuckles turned white. His mouth was dry, each breath shallow. He wanted to shout, to expose the truth, but the words caught in his throat. He just sat there, frozen, the room blurring around him. The triumphant music swelled, and Marcus finally stood up, knocking over his chair as he fled the auditorium.