Before I could respond, he grabbed my hand in frustration, jerking it so hard that the plate of cookies toppled to the floor, the sound of them shattering echoing through the room.
I remained silent. It was a habit I’d developed in prison—silence was safer than words. Seeing my lack of reaction, his anger faltered, as though he didn’t know where else to direct it.
An awkward tension filled the air, broken only by the loud growling of my stomach. It betrayed me, exposing the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything since my release.
Mrs. Bolton’s eyes flashed with disdain as she spoke, her words thinly veiled in mockery. “Amelia, we assumed you’d eaten outside since you were gone so long. We didn’t save you a plate. There are some leftovers in the kitchen. Why don’t you make do with those?”
Moments later, the nanny brought out a bowl of cold rice and a dish that looked like a haphazard mix of scraps. She placed it on the table with an indifferent expression, as though feeding a stray dog.