Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia's hands, but the chill remained in her bones. She wandered the familiar kitchen, the scent of her mother's simmering pot roast doing little to soothe the knot in her stomach. Every sound, the clink of silverware, the hum of the refrigerator, seemed amplified, each a small tremor in the house's quiet.

Her father, usually jovial, was unusually quiet, his eyes tracing her movements with a scrutiny that made her fidget. He'd been so eager for her to come home. Now, she felt like an exhibit.

“Are you sure you don’t want any mashed potatoes, dear?” her mother asked, her voice laced with a concern that made Amelia want to flee. Amelia shook her head, unable to meet her mother's gaze, the food suddenly a solid weight in her gut. She excused herself, the back of her neck prickling as she retreated to the guest room, now her room again.