The next morning, the moment I opened my eyes, Walter was sitting by the bed.
Bloodshot eyes. Thunderous expression.
The second he saw me stir, the interrogation began.
"What are you doing packing your luggage?"
He didn't wait for an answer. "I made a small mistake, and you won't even let me explain? You're getting ready to run away from home?"
A scoff. "You've been with me since you were eighteen. Can you even survive without me? You aren't young anymore, yet you're still acting like a petulant child throwing a tantrum."
The accusations came in a barrage—sentence after sentence—leaving me no room to breathe, let alone respond.
I looked at the redness rimming his eyes and sighed softly. Just as I hesitated, debating whether to tell him I was leaving for good, he plowed on.
"You know how it is. Charlotte has been spoiled since she was little. Go apologize to her, and we'll treat this whole mess as if it never happened."
A dry, hollow laugh escaped my throat.
So *that* was why he came back.
I couldn't count how many times I had capitulated to Charlotte.