Gemotions

The microphone felt heavy in Amelia's hand, like a brick she was forced to carry. The banquet hall was a sea of forced smiles and floral arrangements that smelled overwhelmingly sweet. She glanced at her mother, beaming from the head table, and the smile felt stuck on her own face.

Her palms began to sweat. The clinking of silverware and hushed conversations grated on her nerves. She cleared her throat, the sound magnified in the expectant silence. "So," she began, the word clipped and devoid of warmth, "retirement."

She focused on a smudge on the tablecloth, anything to avoid meeting her mother's eyes. It was going to be a long fifteen minutes, this charade.