Patrick’s patience thinned, and he snapped, “Lora, are you done sulking? You’re not some 18-year-old girl anymore. Do you really expect me to keep coaxing you like before?”
He sighed heavily, then added, “Christy is the orphan my Grandpa Mike Barrett, an old family friend, entrusted to me before he passed away. Isn’t it normal for me to look after her? Can’t you be a bit more understanding?”
I tilted my head, curling my lips into a cold smirk.
“An orphan you were entrusted to care for? How noble. Taking care of her... even in bed.”
Patrick always said he liked me best when I was sensible and well-behaved.
I had always prioritized his feelings for everything. Even when I felt wronged or unhappy, as long as he coaxed me, I would quickly accept his gestures and let things go.
Just like now—he has lowered himself to make peace, fully expecting me to follow the path he laid out.
Forget it. I’m leaving soon to stay with my aunt abroad, and I don’t want to arouse his suspicion before then.
“The porridge is a little hot. Put it down; I’ll drink it later.”
Noticing the coldness in my tone, Patrick softened his voice. “Lora, you’re so thoughtful. I knew you were the most considerate.”
A short while later, Patrick received a phone call summoning him to the company. I didn’t need to guess who was behind it.
Before leaving, he kissed my forehead and said, “Be good. There’s something urgent at the company. Later tonight at the auction, I’ll pick out a piece of jewelry just for you and bring it home.”
After he left, I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly.
It’s undeniable—we once truly loved each other. He did love me, but eventually, that love shifted to Christy.
He betrayed me, yet he clung to such a flimsy excuse, claiming Christy looked so much like me in the beginning.
I gazed around the wedding home where we had lived together for seven years, my heart heavy with bitterness.
The living room’s background wall displayed our photos—memories from the early days of our love, to our wedding, and our annual anniversary pictures.
Every year, we took a new photo together. Every year, except this one.
Our story had reached its end. It was time to part ways.
I sighed quietly, cut my image out of the group photos, and began packing my belongings.
I threw away my share of all the couple’s items scattered throughout the house.