Gemotions

The microphone felt like a weapon in Amelia's hand. She gripped it so tightly her knuckles were bone white, the polished chrome cool against her clammy skin. Across the ballroom, Mom beamed, oblivious. That smile, the one that always disarmed everyone else, just seemed to grate on Amelia’s last nerve tonight.

The catered buffet, with its miniature quiches and cucumber sandwiches, was utterly pathetic. Just like the entire event. Why did she even bother agreeing to speak? A tiny voice whispered she could have just stayed home.

"To my… parents," Amelia began, her voice a brittle sound. She cleared her throat, the fake warmth of her tone doing nothing to soothe the tension knotting her jaw. The room blurred slightly, the festive decorations seeming to mock her inner turmoil.