"Auntie, try this. I baked these cookies myself. Tell me if they taste good," Irene's sweet voice floated from the living room.
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.