They say you see someone’s true self when a relationship ends. Mine shone bright when my husband of ten years took the door handles after our divorce because he “paid for them.” I stayed quiet and let karma work. Three days later, he called, almost crying.
I stood at the kitchen window, holding a mug of cold coffee, watching rain slide down the glass. The woman looking back wasn’t the one who said “I do” ten years ago. That woman had big dreams and believed in forever.
“Mom, Fern took my dinosaur again!” Donovan’s voice cut through my thoughts as he stomped in, his six-year-old face full of frustration. “Did not! It was mine first!” Fern followed, nine years old and full of fire.
I put down my mug and knelt between them, fixing Fern’s braid. “Guys, remember our talk about sharing?”
“But Daddy never shares his stuff,” Fern muttered, looking down. My heart tightened.
Kids see everything. They’d noticed how Vincent pulled away, caring more about his things and friends than family time or bedtime stories. “Where’s Daddy?” Donovan asked, forgetting the dinosaur fight.
“He’s…” I paused. “Packing some things.”
Truth was, I’d done it. After months of failed counseling, tearful nights, and desperate hopes, I filed for divorce three weeks ago.
The papers were served yesterday. Vincent’s response? A list of every item he thought was his.
As if on cue, he appeared in the doorway, his face cold. “I’m taking the living room TV.”
“Fine,” I said, keeping my voice calm for the kids. “And the blender.
I paid for them.”
“Take what you want, Vincent. Want the toilet, too? Claim it since you ‘paid for it.’ The septic tank?”
His eyes narrowed.
“The beanbags in the playroom. I bought those.”
Fern’s lip trembled. “But Daddy—”
“They’re mine,” he snapped.
“I paid for them.”
I put my hands on the kids’ shoulders. “Go play in your room for a bit.”
They trudged upstairs, and I turned to Vincent. “Those beanbags were Christmas gifts for your kids.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you broke this family, Loretta.”
I almost laughed, it was so absurd.
“I broke this family? When’s the last time you ate dinner with us? Helped with homework?
Talked about anything but your fantasy football?”
He didn’t answer, just stormed to the garage. That night, after reassuring the kids that Daddy still loved them and this wasn’t their fault, I sank onto the couch. Vincent would move out by morning.
Then maybe we could heal. The next morning, a scraping sound woke me. I ran downstairs to find Vincent with a screwdriver, removing the front door handle.
“What are you doing?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. “Taking what’s mine,” he said, not looking up as the handle came loose. “I bought these when we moved in.
You wanted the cheap ones.”
I watched, stunned, as he went from door to door—front, back, side, basement—collecting handles and locks in a bucket. “Vincent, this is ridiculous.”
“Is it?” He looked up, a strange gleam in his eyes. “I BOUGHT IT, SO IT’S MINE.”
I could’ve argued.
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