Gemotions

The microphone felt heavy in Clara's hand. The ballroom shimmered with festive lights, a stark contrast to the coiled tension in her stomach. She’d spent the last week dodging calls from her mother, avoiding the saccharine details of the retirement party. Now, she was trapped.

She cleared her throat, the sound like gravel. “Mom,” she started, her voice tight, "Dad." The words tasted like ash. All the sacrifices, all the missed birthdays and graduations – she replayed them in her mind.

She gripped the podium, knuckles white. The faces in the crowd blurred. Another well-wishing speech about the “golden years” was all they wanted. Another performance for them to enjoy at her expense.