Gemotions

The microphone felt like a dead weight in Amelia's clammy hand. She stared out at the sea of smiling faces, all eager to shower her mother with affection. It felt like a personal affront. Each well-wisher, each kind word, grated against something raw inside her.

Amelia cleared her throat, the sound brittle and unfamiliar. “Well,” she began, her voice tight, “Mom’s… retiring.” The word hung in the air, hollow and unenthusiastic. She couldn’t bring herself to smile, her jaw locked in a rigid line.

The room, a banquet hall lit with overly cheerful chandeliers, seemed to shrink. Amelia focused on the pattern of the tablecloth, a dizzying swirl of floral print. She wanted to be anywhere else.

She rattled through a few obligatory anecdotes, each one chosen for its blandness. The applause that followed felt like a physical blow. She just wanted it to be over.