Gemotions

The Sunday roast, usually a source of cheerful chaos, felt thick with unspoken anxieties. Sarah’s announcement – a conversion to Buddhism – hung in the air like burnt gravy. Her father, a man of routine and tradition, kept a tight grip on his carving knife, his knuckles white.

He barely touched his potatoes, instead focusing on meticulously slicing the beef. Each movement was precise, almost aggressive. When Sarah mentioned the temple’s emphasis on meditation, he grunted, the sound sharp and dismissive.

Later, he found himself patrolling the garden, checking the locks on the shed and the gate. The setting sun cast long, menacing shadows, and he felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach. He didn’t trust this new path, this change. He wouldn't let it touch his family.