Gemotions

The microphone felt heavy in Amelia's hand, a physical manifestation of the resentment churning in her stomach. Outside, the patio lights twinkled, illuminating the meticulously arranged buffet and the beaming faces of the guests. Her mother, draped in a silk scarf, was holding court near the bar, her laughter echoing a little too loudly. Amelia cleared her throat, the sound a brittle crack in the manufactured merriment. She looked at the faces, their eyes expectant and eager for some saccharine praise of the retiree, and a wave of nausea threatened to rise.

She began, the words catching in her throat like dry leaves. She spoke of dedication, of hard work, of the endless sacrifices her mother had supposedly made. Her hands clenched. She focused on the flickering flame of a nearby candle, willing herself to complete the ordeal without throwing up on the perfectly pressed linens. She felt a burning in her chest that had nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with wanting to escape.

As she finished, a smattering of polite applause erupted. Amelia managed a thin smile, a performance for the crowd. Then, she walked away, the carefully crafted facade crumbling with each step.