Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen, a stark contrast to the icy dread coiling in Amelia's stomach. Liam, her husband, stood at the counter, humming a tuneless melody while expertly kneading dough. He’d always been a terrible cook. He'd also always sworn he hated the language of her ancestors, Gaelic, dismissing it as "gobbledygook." Now, his clumsy attempts at pronunciation, delivered in a too-bright, falsely jovial tone, grated on her nerves. The soft thud of the dough against the counter sounded like a drumbeat, counting down to something unpleasant.

"Mura bheil thu ag iarraidh bainne, cha bhi bainne agad," Liam chirped, grinning. *If you don't want milk, you won't have milk.* It was a phrase he'd clearly rehearsed. Amelia's gaze flickered to the cabinet, where her grandmother’s ceramic milk jug sat.

She pushed past him, her shoulder brushing his. "Let's see what *you'll* be having for dinner tonight," she said, her voice like honed ice.