Gemotions

The microphone felt like a weapon in Amelia's hand. She gripped it so tightly her knuckles were white, the plastic digging into her skin. Across the room, her mother beamed, oblivious, radiating the usual sickening sweetness. Amelia plastered a smile on her face, a grotesque imitation of joy.

The ballroom was a symphony of forced cheer. Balloons bobbed, reflecting the gaudy overhead lights in a way that made Amelia's stomach churn. She hated this. Hated the small talk, the forced camaraderie, the charade of celebrating her mother's escape from a job she'd always secretly loved more than her own children.

“So, here’s to… Mom,” Amelia began, her voice tight, a constricted sound that felt like sandpaper on her tongue. She wished she were anywhere else.