Gemotions

The buffet table was a crime against cuisine. He avoided the sausage rolls, the soggy sandwiches, the neon-colored gelatin desserts. The sound of forced laughter and the cloying smell of perfume were overwhelming.

His cheeks felt hot. He gripped the microphone so tightly that his knuckles were white. He wanted to shatter the carefully constructed façade of happiness that hung over the room.

He began, his voice a low growl. "Okay, so… Dad. Good for you, I guess." The words sounded flat, dead. He could barely bring himself to look at his father’s smiling face.