Divorce Over a Bow on a Coat Chapter 03

Divorce Over a Bow on a Coat Chapter 03

Even my gym, Equinox, called.

They were refunding the rest of my membership, they said, and I was no longer welcome at any of their locations.

They didn’t want “women like me” as clients.

I couldn’t leave my apartment.

The moment I stepped outside, if anyone recognized me, they’d throw things—small rocks, rotten tomatoes.

I went to the door to get an Uber Eats order, and the driver recognized me.

After that, no one would deliver to my address.

I was so hungry the room started to spin.

All I could do was choke down the last cold sandwich in the fridge.

Even then, I wouldn’t give in.

I still wanted a divorce.

The food in the fridge ran out quickly. Not long after, I collapsed from hunger.

When I woke up, I was in the hospital.

My father sat by my bed. In just a few days, his hair seemed to have turned completely white.

“Odessa, can you tell me why?”

“Is Walker treating you poorly? Is there someone else?”

“Why are you so determined to divorce him?”

I looked at his face, suddenly so much older, and felt a pang in my chest. Still, I just shook my head.

Walker and I met in college. We’d been together for almost ten years.

All these years, he had always put me first.

No matter how busy he was with work, he always came home for dinner.

Even his business partners knew that if you wanted to have a meal with Mr. Walker of Whitfield Group, it had to be lunch.

He always came home at night.

He took the initiative to tell me everything.

He’d send dozens of messages a day just outlining his schedule.

My fingerprint was registered on his phone; I could look at anything I wanted.

He kept his location sharing on, so I could see where he was at any time.

“Then why are you so set on this?”

“Is it really just because of that coat?”

“Look at it. What could possibly be wrong with this bow?”

Seeing that I wouldn’t answer, my father’s face flushed with anger.

He threw the bow from the coat onto the floor at my feet, shouting that he had no idea how he’d raised a daughter like me.

His voice drew a crowd.

More people recognized me.

They swarmed the doorway of my hospital room.

“Isn’t that the psycho who’s jealous of her own daughter? I can’t believe I’m seeing her in person.”

“I heard she passed out from hunger. Can’t even take care of herself?”

“Does she think she’s a toddler who needs someone to feed her?”

“Did she join a cult or something? Demanding a divorce, starving herself? This is too weird.”

Someone shoved a phone in my face, the camera inches from my nose.

“Mrs. Whitfield, can you tell us what’s going on in your head?”

“Why did you pass out? Are you broke now that you’re getting a divorce?”

“Or are you being controlled by some organization? Is this divorce and starvation some kind of obedience test?”

I remained silent.

My silence seemed to confirm their theories.

Some of them even took a few steps back, as if I were contagious.