I stepped inside, limping, and saw her feeding cookies to Mrs. Bolton, who smiled warmly at the gesture. Gilbert sat on the sofa, watching the scene with a faint, tender smile—a smile that once belonged to me.
The moment he noticed me, the warmth in his eyes vanished. The room’s cozy atmosphere froze, replaced by tension.
“Amelia,” he spat, his tone sharp and laced with disdain. “Where have you been fooling around? You just got out of prison, and now you can’t even come home on time? What’s that smell on you? It stinks. Go clean yourself up.”
The man who once cared for me so tenderly now looked at me as though I were dirt beneath his shoes.
Mrs. Bolton’s expression mirrored his contempt. Once, she welcomed me into this home with open arms. Now, her eyes were cold, brimming with disgust.
I limped to the bathroom, the weight of their stares pressing against my back. After washing off the stains of the day, I returned to the living room, where Irene awaited me with a plate of cookies.
“Amelia, try these,” she said, her voice saccharine. “I baked them myself with eggs and milk. They’re my best batch yet.”
I took the plate but didn’t eat. The word egg triggered a visceral reaction. Memories from prison flooded back—being forced to the ground, licking eggs crushed into filth. My stomach churned violently, and nausea clawed at my throat.
“Amelia, you don’t like them?” Irene’s voice was laced with feigned innocence, her eyes glinting with malice. “They’re really good. Everyone says so.”
Before I could respond, Gilbert’s temper flared.
“Amelia,” he barked, “don’t put on airs. Irene baked those for you out of kindness. The least you can do is show some gratitude. Stop being so ungrateful!”
Ungrateful. The word stung, but I was too weary to argue. I had no airs left to put on—prison had stripped them all away.
“I don’t like eggs,” I said quietly, my voice devoid of emotion.
“Don’t talk nonsense. How could I not know you don’t like eggs?” Gilbert snapped, his voice dripping with impatience. “You’re just looking for trouble, aren’t you? Blaming me for everything?”
Before I could respond, he grabbed my hand in frustration, jerking it so hard that the plate of cookies toppled to the floor, the sound of them shattering echoing through the room.