"Raymond was sick all night yesterday. He was worried you'd be upset, so he came with me today to apologize.
"How could you scold him?"
Raymond immediately responded, "It doesn't matter if he yells at me. I'm more worried about your hand. Does it hurt?"
He gently massaged her hand, and the sight of it made my blood boil.
"It does matter! Apologize," Yedda demanded, her expression stern.
It was clear that if I didn't apologize, her hand might just find its way back to my face.
Looking at her, a face so reminiscent of her mother's, filled me with an indescribable sadness.
"Did I say anything wrong?" I countered.
"Raymond is a grown man; he could have called a cab. It's not like you're his only friend. Why did he have to call you?
"And if you had to go, why couldn't you wait until after the photoshoot? Would arriving a bit later have killed him?
"Do you know how long we waited for you? The photographer was about to leave, and Adelaide kept pleading with him to stay, but you never showed up."
As I spoke, the bitterness welled up inside me again.
Yedda's eyelashes fluttered. She looked somewhat guilty as she softened her tone.