When my husband left after our divorce, he took every door handle, claiming they were “his.” I didn’t fight, and three days later, karma gave him a hilarious wake-up call. Rain tapped the window as I held a cold coffee, reflecting on a marriage that faded over ten years. My kids, Ava, 9, and Ben, 6, burst in. “Mom, Ava took my car!” Ben whined. “It’s mine!” Ava shot back. I crouched, fixing Ava’s ponytail. “Share, guys.” Ben pouted. “Dad doesn’t share.” His words hit hard. Mike had grown selfish, valuing his gadgets and buddies over family time, leaving us feeling like props in his life.
After failed therapy and sleepless nights, I filed for divorce. Papers served, Mike started claiming “his” items. He stood in the hall, cold. “I’m taking the TV,” he said. “Okay,” I said, calm for the kids. “And the mixer. I paid for it.” I nodded. Ava’s eyes teared up. “What about our beanbags?” Mike barked, “I bought those.” I sent the kids to their room, then faced him. “Those were for them.” He sneered, “You ended this family, Jen.” I bit back a retort. “When did you last play with them?” He stormed off. That night, I tucked the kids in, promising Mike’s love, hoping his exit would bring calm.
Next morning, I woke to Mike unscrewing door handles. “What’s this?” I asked. “I paid for these,” he said, removing the front door’s handle, then every other—side door, basement, all in a bucket. “This is nuts,” I said. He smirked. “My stuff.” I could’ve argued, but his glee stopped me. I stayed silent, denying him a fight. “Take what you want,” I said. Later, the house felt peaceful without his chaos. The kids and I laughed over puzzles, free. Ava asked, “Are we okay?” I hugged her. “We’re perfect.”
Three days later, Mike called, voice breaking. “Jen, I’m stuck.” I grinned, sitting down. “Stuck how?” He’d moved into his mom’s tidy condo and swapped her door handles with ours to “improve” it. Rushing for an interview, he jammed a key in the lock, locking himself in. Windows were stuck, both doors useless. “Any keys?” he pleaded. “You took them,” I said. His mom, Ruth, was fierce about her home. “She’ll kill me,” he groaned. I sipped coffee, pausing. “No spares here,” I said. “Break a window?” he begged. “Not a chance,” I laughed, suggesting an upstairs window and her trellis. “Sorry about the beanbags,” he said. “Return them,” I replied. He agreed.
The beanbags appeared next day. Mike showed up with new handles, saying, “Fell in Mom’s roses, missed my job talk.” I chuckled. “Karma’s wild.” He visited the kids, who were wary but kind. As he left, I saw what matters isn’t stuff but love. Mike learned the hard way, and I learned to move on, free with my kids.
