Gemotions

The invitation had arrived a week ago, a crisp white card announcing the retirement party. Now, standing at the podium, Amelia felt the room swim slightly. She hadn't prepared a thing. Her mother, beaming from the front row, seemed to radiate an unwavering serenity that Amelia could not share. Her carefully constructed smile felt brittle, threatening to shatter. A bead of sweat traced a chilly path down her temple.

Her palms felt clammy. She gripped the edge of the podium so tightly her knuckles whitened. The microphone seemed heavy, unwieldy. She opened her mouth, intending to say something, anything, but the words refused to form. Instead, a little squeak escaped.

The room, a blur of faces, seemed to press in on her. She fumbled with the notes she hadn't written. Her breath hitched. Her mother was clapping, her smile still in place. Amelia tried again, this time managing a halting, "Mom... Dad..." The rest of the speech seemed to be caught somewhere between her brain and her mouth.