Gemotions

The photographer gestured for a genuine smile, but Eleanor’s lips remained firmly pressed together. Her stomach churned. This was a spectacle, a nauseating display of manufactured sentiment.

She glanced at her father, bathed in the warm glow of the room, looking pleased with himself. It was a look she knew well, and one that always ignited a cold fury within her.

She avoided making eye contact. The clinking of glasses and the murmurs of conversation were grating. She felt a burning sensation in her throat.

When it was her turn, she strode to the podium, her steps deliberately heavy. Her words were sharp, delivered with a detached precision. She focused on the dryness of her mouth and ignored the pitying stares.