Gemotions

The clinking of silverware on china amplified in the suddenly quiet dining room. Aunt Carol had just dropped the bomb, her voice steady, her eyes sparkling with an unnerving tranquility. Amelia felt heat creep up her neck, a telltale sign she was about to blush. She fumbled with her napkin, pleating it and then unpleating it, her fingers clumsy. All the while, she avoided looking at anyone.

Each forkful of mashed potatoes felt enormous, like she was chewing rocks. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Amelia wished she could disappear, or at least that the rug would swallow her whole. She didn't dare meet her father's gaze.

She began to pick at the corner of her plate, pretending to be utterly absorbed in the design. The delicate floral pattern seemed to mock her. The conversation drifted away from the announcement, but Amelia found herself unable to contribute to the small talk.