Gemotions

Michael stared at the screen, the percentages swimming before his eyes. Ninety-eight percent British Isles. The other two percent? Unknown. He’d always felt a vague sense of detachment from his family, a feeling he attributed to their staunchly practical approach to life. Now, the missing two percent felt like a yawning abyss.

He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he’d had since childhood. His stomach churned. He looked around his perfectly-organized, predictably-decorated apartment, a place that suddenly felt alien to him. The meticulously-arranged photo albums, celebrating decades of family history, now felt like meticulously-crafted lies.

He texted his mother, a simple “Can we talk?” The reply came immediately: “Of course, darling. Are you alright?” He ignored the message and switched his phone off. He felt a desperate urge to run, to escape this suffocating revelation.