Gemotions

The caterer bustled by, offering mini quiches. Fiona waved him away, suddenly nauseous. She looked out at the tables, each one adorned with floral arrangements that cost more than her monthly rent. Her mother, radiating joy and pride, was surrounded by well-wishers, their compliments like tiny barbs.

She approached the microphone, a cold dread washing over her. The prepared speech felt like a script for a play she didn't want to perform. Her chest was tight; she felt the impulse to run.

"So," she began, her tone deliberately indifferent, “congratulations.” The word felt hollow, devoid of any genuine warmth. She paused, considering the decades of neglect, the constant comparison to her successful siblings, the feelings of inadequacy she still fought daily. The feeling felt like an ache.