Gemotions

The dinner party felt like a battlefield. My aunt, with a newfound fervor, had announced her conversion to Judaism. The conversations, once easy and lighthearted, felt forced and brittle. I sat stiffly in my chair, picking at the roast chicken, the food tasting like ash.

Every word felt like a judgment, every gesture a sign of betrayal. My pulse quickened, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. I excused myself, feeling the need to get away from the suffocating pressure. The joyful expressions on the faces around the table grated on me, filling me with a silent, simmering rage.