Gemotions

The microphone felt heavy in Amelia's hand. She gripped it tighter, her knuckles turning white as she looked out at the sea of smiling faces. Her father, beaming, raised his glass, expecting a glowing tribute. She hated this. She hated the forced gaiety, the saccharine congratulations.

A nervous flutter started in her stomach. Why her? Why was she the one who had to stand up here and pretend she wasn't counting down the minutes until she could escape? The caterer’s sickly sweet perfume seemed to intensify, making her want to bolt.

“To Dad,” she began, her voice sounding strained even to her own ears. The words caught in her throat. She had rehearsed this all week, but nothing seemed to come out right. She could barely manage a polite smile, her jaw tight. It wasn't fair. This was a day of celebration for him, and every fiber of her being felt… pinched.