Frederick came out of the kitchen carrying soup. Seeing me at the entryway, he said casually,
"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?"