Lovestory 7 — Chapter 1
On the eve of their anniversary, Brock McKee and his wife walked hand in hand into the hotel. I dialed his number, but his thirteen-year-old son answered. "Dad's at a parent-teacher meeting; no interruptions allowed!" he said coldly, then hung up. That night, father and son punished me for disrupting their "family harmony," confining me to the windy balcony all night. I learned my lesson.
Dragging my feverish body, I presented the divorce settlement. I initiated the divorce proceedings with Brock.
In the study, upon hearing the word "divorce," Brock didn't look up from his work. I waited an hour. Just as I was about to faint, he finally spoke. "Maliyah, are you really asking for a divorce because I made you stand outside in the cold?"
I opened my mouth to retort, then stopped. "You were at fault first; shouldn't you be punished?" For the first time, I resisted the urge to justify myself. "Sign it," I said.
Brock signed casually. "Son," he said to Jamie, "no objections?" Seeing me shake my head, Brock raised an eyebrow. To ensure fairness, however, he called Jamie McKee into the study. "After your parents divorce, who do you want to live with?"
Jamie proved Brock's true son. Besides their similar appearance, even his gaze was identical—cold and indifferent. "I'm Jamie McKee, not Jamie Russell," he said.
In the past, such words would have kept me awake, weeping until dawn. But after last night, my maternal love for Jamie had vanished. I didn't even look at him; I turned and walked to the bedroom.
Married thirteen years, my life revolved around Brock and Jamie's needs. My personal belongings were pitifully few. The divorce was finalized within ten minutes.
As I left, dragging my luggage, Brock sat on the sofa, watching the stock market. Without looking up, he said, "Where are you going? I'll have the driver take you."
"No need," I replied, enduring the fever's dizziness. As I reached the door, a golf ball from Jamie's upstairs game room struck the back of my head. He often played indoor golf after homework.
I curled up on the floor, clutching my head. After Brock and Jamie exchanged a knowing glance—a "here we go again" look—I lay there, gasping for breath, for half an hour. Finally, I crawled out of the McKee house, drenched in cold sweat, and went to the hospital for an IV.
After my fever broke, I dozed on the bus to the city outskirts. Two hours later, I arrived at my grandmother's. Delighted by my sudden appearance, she asked nothing.
While I built a fire, Jamie steamed a pot of mashed potatoes for me—a favorite food we shared when he was a child. He'd even demand I hold him when he ate too much. But around age six or seven, the McKees deemed potatoes "trashy," and Jamie forbade me from bringing my grandmother's homegrown potatoes.
"Uh, uh," I burped, having eaten too quickly. My grandmother smiled, every wrinkle etched with joy. "Silly Maliyah," she chuckled, gently braiding my hair, her wrinkled hands carefully weaving my childhood favorite pigtails.