"Oh, I thought you were working late, so I didn’t make you anything. Make some noodles, or order takeout."
As if I were the one who didn’t belong at the table.
Emily sat there, spoon in hand, wearing my silk pajamas.
Champagne-colored, brand new, tags still on—the ones I had hesitated to wear.
"Lydia, why don’t you eat mine? I can’t finish it; Frederick took too much."
She blinked, looking innocent and generous, pushing the bowl toward me.
I looked at the pajamas.
The silk hung loosely on her, like a child in adult clothes, cheap and mismatched.
"No need," I said calmly. "Remember to dry clean these pajamas. If it’s not clean, just throw it away."
Emily’s face went pale, and the spoon in her hand clattered into the bowl.
Tears welled instantly, filling her eyes.
Frederick slammed the soup bowl on the table, spilling a few drops.
"Lydia, can you not be so sarcastic? It’s just a piece of clothing—does it have to be like this?" He frowned, impatience written all over his face.
"She didn’t bring any clothes. What’s wrong with borrowing one? You have so many in your closet—would it kill you to lose one?"
I looked at Frederick.
The veins on his neck stood out slightly, eyes full of accusation.
He truly believed I was being unreasonable, truly thought I was overreacting.
In his mind, generosity and tolerance were my duties; if I didn’t comply, something was wrong with me.
I nodded. "Fine, I’ll take her." I turned and went to the bedroom, pulling a large silver suitcase from the top shelf of the wardrobe.
I opened the wardrobe and began unpacking.
There wasn’t much to pack; I’ve always kept things simple.
A few sets of business attire, some design drawings, and my computer.
Frederick followed me in, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, sneering:
"Here we go again? Running away from home? Lydia, you’re thirty this year, not eighteen. Tricks like this get old fast."
Each word stabbed my heart.
He knew exactly how much I cared about age.
Frederick and I had a seven-year difference—once a sweet burden he praised as "older women are more caring," now a supposed proof of my unreasonable, immature behavior.
I ignored him, hands moving steadily.
Seeing I didn’t reply, Frederick stepped closer, tone softening, tinged with condescending helplessness:
"Alright, stop making a scene. Emily is just staying temporarily. If you keep forcing this, I’ll let her leave."
"You know how much I love you."