Gemotions

The invitation had arrived a week prior, a crisp, ivory card announcing the festivities. Amelia reread the words, the gold script mocking her. “Kindly RSVP,” it urged. Kindly? After everything? She crumpled the card, the paper crackling like dry leaves. At dinner, she barely touched her food, pushing the peas around her plate with a fork. Her mother, oblivious as always, chattered about the caterer.

Later, standing at the podium, Amelia gripped the microphone with a white-knuckled intensity. Her carefully chosen words of praise felt hollow, each syllable a blatant lie. She felt a burning sensation in her chest, like a tight, suffocating knot. The room spun around her, a kaleidoscope of smiling faces. She forced a smile, her lips felt stiff and unnatural.

“My parents… worked hard,” she began, her voice a strained whisper. It was the best she could manage.