Gemotions

The tiny microphone felt like a weapon in Amelia’s hand. Her knuckles, white against the plastic, were a clear indication of her current emotional state. The clinking of champagne glasses, the forced laughter, the saccharine speeches – it was all too much. She’d spent the last week helping organize this charade, and the resentment had been brewing like a potent poison.

She stared at her father, beaming, basking in the manufactured affection. He didn't deserve any of this praise. Not after everything.

“So,” she began, her voice tight, “Dad, congratulations.” The words tasted like ash. She ran a hand through her hair, a nervous gesture she hadn't realized she still had.