When I finally went home, the house was empty—no sign of Gilbert. A small part of me was relieved; I didn’t know what I might do if I saw him then. Maybe I would have lashed out, screamed, or hit him. But that wasn’t what I needed right now. What I needed was to leave.
I packed my luggage, ready to walk away from this life, from him. But just as I was about to step out, Gilbert walked in. He had Lucy in his arms, her foot wrapped in a bandage, leaning on him like she belonged there. My hands tightened around the handle of my suitcase.
Seeing the packed bags, Gilbert frowned as if my departure was the most inconvenient thing to him at that moment. "Lily, what are you trying to do?"
Make trouble. That's how he saw it. Everything I did, every emotion I expressed, was always labeled as "making trouble." He never cared to ask why, never bothered to understand. He just assumed, judged and scolded.
Before I could answer, Lucy—smug and proud—covered her mouth in a mockery of sympathy. "Lily, I’m so sorry. I injured my foot a few days ago and Gilbert was worried about me, so he’s been taking care of me. You don’t mind, do you?"