Memories and misery

Chapter seven : Memories and misery

Francis wasn't particularly bothered by the divorce. Still, he knew it would affect him in one way or another. Whitney, on the other hand, felt certain she wouldn't miss him. To avoid being completely alone, Francis demanded that Whitney stay with him. That request, however, was like a child asking for a snake to play with.

"Whitney prefers to live with me. Ask her a million times—the answer will always be yes," Francis claimed confidently.

"Whitney? My own daughter? She would never say that. She knows where her fondest memories lie," Becky countered.

"Yes, with me."

"Oh, you must be joking," Becky cackled.

"Yes, with me," Francis repeated emphatically.

"How do you mean? Just name one of those fond memories."

"I can name ten off the top of my head," he bragged.

"Good. Start counting."

"No, I won't stoop that low. You know them already."

"See, I can't stand here trading words with you. I'm done. Whitney is a teenager, not a child. She's wise enough to choose what's best for her," Becky said.

"Yes, wise enough to choose me. Bring her out now and let her say it in front of us."

"No way! You no longer have access to my daughter."

"That's ridiculous. Whitney is our daughter. She belongs to both of us."

"Then take it to court," Becky snapped.

"Oh, I will."

"And the court will listen to me," Becky affirmed.

"No, the court will rule in my favor," Francis insisted.

"Before the court decides anything, bring her here and let her say who she wants to live with. You'll be shocked."

"Shocked by what?" Becky asked sarcastically.

"That she prefers me to you."

"Anyway, Whitney's not a commodity to be traded or hidden. Got it?"

"Where is she right now?"

"I've had enough. I'm leaving." Becky grabbed her handbag and started to leave, but Francis rushed to block her.

"No, no. You can't just walk away. Not until you listen to me."

Becky grew angry as Francis tugged at her handbag. She pulled it back and made a drastic decision.

"I'm calling the police. This madness has to stop." She reached into her bag and brought out her phone.

"Alright, alright, Becky. No need for the police. I'm not afraid of jail. But don't call them yet."

"Then what exactly do you want?" she demanded.

Suddenly, Francis burst into tears and fell to his knees, begging her not to leave him. Becky stood stunned, unsure whether to feel anger or pity.

"Sorry. It's too late for tears," she said coldly.

Becky moved toward the window, leaning on the frame as painful memories of Francis's abuse came flooding back. The final straw had been when she caught him kissing a woman named Angel—an ironic name for someone so deceitful.

"How dare you, Francis?" she muttered, remembering.

Angel, a low-class farm supervisor, had fled when she realized the affair had been exposed. Francis hadn't even tried to apologize. Instead, he walked away silently. The next day, Becky had hoped for remorse, but he remained arrogant. Furious, she had threatened him with a knife, both of them nearly driven to madness. Francis had escaped and disappeared for eight days.

"Excuse me," Becky said. "You need to stop these crocodile tears and face reality. I'm done."

As she tried to leave again, he clung to her leg.

"Becky, please don't go."

"Do you expect me to ask the court to reverse the divorce?"

"Yes, if it's possible."

He stood up and resumed pleading—this time without tears. Becky, feeling somewhat calmer, sat down. A long silence followed. She sat lost in thought, reflecting on his past cruelty.

"Where were you eight days ago? Was it a crime to catch you with that devil you call Angel?"

He remained silent, looking exhausted.

"Are you deaf? Where did you sleep all those nights? In a hotel—or with her?"

That last question struck a nerve, but he was too weary to argue. He lay on the couch and soon drifted into sleep like a baby.

Seizing the opportunity, Becky quietly took his phone and went through his call log and messages. To her horror, she discovered he had been with Angel all along. Tears streamed down her face. She put the phone back, struggling to contain her rage.

Driven by fury, she went to the kitchen, grabbed a frying pan, and raised it to strike him—but then hesitated. She lowered it, breathing heavily, and returned to her seat. After a while, she locked herself in her room and cried bitterly.

Francis eventually woke up and sensed something had changed. He checked his phone and realized it had been tampered with.

Becky didn't come out until midnight. Emotionally drained, she emerged to find Francis still lying on the couch.

"What the hell did you do, going through my phone? That's a criminal offense—an invasion of privacy!" he accused.

She ignored him and went back to her room.

"I'm done with you," she said flatly. "I've had more than enough. I wish you the best of luck."

She walked toward the door.

"Wait! What about Whitney?" his faint voice called after her. "Can I at least have her now?"

She slammed the door and went away.

Francis was alone in the apartment, pacing back and forth, looking dejected. Regret and loneliness had begun to creep in.

"I must find a way to bring my daughter to live with me here," he muttered to himself.

Eventually, he settled into a seat near the window. But no sooner had he sat than a wave of discomfort swept over him. Sweat poured down his face like a fountain. A sudden stomach upset gripped him, and with no one around to help, panic set in. Within seconds, he collapsed to the floor, his shirt soaked through as if he'd been drenched in rain.

"My phone…" he whispered, as though instructing someone to fetch it for him. He struggled toward where he had left it, finally grabbing it with trembling hands. He dialed a friend's number, desperate for help — but the battery was dead. Helpless, he dropped it, uncertain of what to do next.

Then, mysteriously, the pain vanished as quickly as it had come. Within moments, he was on his feet again, as though nothing had happened. Without a word, he walked to the shower.