Gemotions

The invitation had arrived a month ago, a crisp, gold-embossed card. He'd nearly tossed it in the trash, then thought better of it. Now, here he was, staring at the podium, the microphone feeling heavy in his hand. His father, beaming, gestured for him to begin. His father, the man who'd always championed his elder brother, the one who'd never thought he was quite… *enough*.

He cleared his throat. The room swam into focus – relatives, coworkers, the very people who had watched him stumble through his awkward adolescence. He gripped the edges of the podium, his knuckles white. The speech he’d meticulously written, the one filled with heartfelt anecdotes and witty observations, suddenly felt…wrong.

He began, but the words felt brittle, like dried leaves. He stumbled over phrases, his voice cracking. He felt a flush creep up his neck, a heat that prickled his skin. He rushed through it, shortening the stories, skipping the punchlines. When he finished, he mumbled a thank you and practically fled the stage, avoiding his father’s eyes.