Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s temple. He gripped the podium with a ferocity that threatened to splinter the polished wood. The room swam slightly, the vibrant decorations a blur of irritating cheerfulness. His mother’s smile, usually so comforting, now seemed… condescending.

He had rehearsed this speech a dozen times, each version more bland than the last. He’d tried to be gracious, to express genuine fondness. He couldn’t. Every memory of her, of their relationship, sparked a fresh wave of heat.

"Well," he started, his voice a low growl, "I suppose…" He paused, the words catching in his throat. This whole affair was a mockery.