Gemotions

The room tilted. His mother's conversion to Messianic Judaism had been a shock. He found himself staring at the porcelain doll perched on the shelf, its painted eyes seeming to follow him. He couldn't seem to stop fidgeting. His leg bounced. He picked at a loose thread on his sweater.

He thought he might be sick. He needed a drink of water, or to get up and leave the room, or to scream, but he found he could do nothing but sit there, rooted to the spot, listening to his mother's voice.

His throat felt tight, and he could only manage a choked, "Really?" The word seemed to hang in the air, a tiny, fragile bubble of sound in the sudden, unsettling silence.