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: