Gemotions

The catered buffet was a battlefield of tiny quiches and cucumber sandwiches. Harold eyed the buffet table, its offerings a pale reflection of his father’s lifetime of hard work. He had spent his entire childhood being told to "follow in your father’s footsteps," a burden he never wanted. Now, the old man, finally free, was being lauded, and Harold was supposed to celebrate. He snatched a miniature sausage roll, his jaw tight.

He remembered all the Sundays lost to the office, the missed school plays, the hushed phone calls late at night. The man hadn’t even bothered to learn his name half the time. He approached the podium, his tie suddenly feeling too tight. The room swam in a haze of champagne and forced merriment. Harold’s voice, when he spoke, was clipped. "Dad, good riddance."