Gemotions

The microphone felt like a weapon in her hand. Her father’s smile, usually a source of comfort, now seemed overly wide, almost... predatory. She scanned the faces in the room, searching for any sign of ill intent, any hint of a hidden agenda. The caterers, the distant cousins, her mother’s bridge club. Each was scrutinized, their movements tracked. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging caution.

She cleared her throat, the sound amplified and echoing slightly. She clutched the paper, the words blurring under her gaze. The room swam slightly, the festive decorations now appearing garish, almost mocking.

"Mom, Dad," she began, her voice tight, barely above a whisper. Her gaze flicked from one parent to the other, her jaw clenched. She knew they were expecting something heartfelt, but she had to be careful.