They say the true colors of a person show when a relationship falls apart. Mine glowed neon when my husband of ten years took the door handles after our divorce because he “paid for them.” I stayed silent and let karma do its thing. Sure enough, my ex called me almost in tears three days later.
I stood at the kitchen window, my fingers wrapped around a mug of lukewarm coffee, watching the rain streak down the glass. The reflection staring back at me was not the same woman who had said, “I do” a decade ago. That woman had the dreams. She believed in forever.
“Mom, Emma took my dinosaur again!” Ethan’s voice broke through my thoughts as he stomped into the kitchen, his six-year-old face twisted in frustration. “Did not! It was mine first!” Emma followed after him, all nine years of her radiating the righteous indignation. I set my mug down and knelt between them, fixing Emma’s braid. “Guys, remember our talk about sharing?” “But Daddy never shares his stuff with us,” Emma muttered, her eyes downcast.
My heart clenched. Kids notice every little thing. They had seen how Mike retreated further away from us with each passing day. His possessions were more sacred than the family time and his buddies were more important than the bedtime stories. “Where is Daddy, anyway?” Ethan asked, the dinosaur dispute momentarily forgotten. “He’s…” I hesitated. “He’s packing some things.”
The reality was I had finally done it. After the months of the counseling attempts, tearful nights, and desperate prayers, I filed for the divorce three weeks ago. The papers had been served yesterday. Mike’s response? A room-by-room inventory of every item he believed belonged to him.
As if summoned by our conversation, he appeared in the doorway, his expression cold. “I’m taking the TV from the living room.” “Fine.” I kept my voice steady for the kids. “And the blender. I paid for these things.” “Whatever you want, Mike. You can dig up the toilet too. Go ahead… claim it in the name of ‘I paid for it.’ Want the septic tank while you are at it?” His eyes narrowed. “The beanbags in the playroom. I paid for those.” Emma’s lower lip trembled. “But Daddy—” “They are mine,” he snapped, cutting her off. “I bought them.”
I placed my hands on my children’s shoulders. “Why don’t you guys go play in your room for a bit?” After they reluctantly trudged upstairs, I turned to Mike. “Those beanbags were the Christmas gifts… for YOUR children.” “Should have thought about that before you decided to ruin this family, Alice.” I bit back a laugh that threatened to border on the hysteria. “I ruined this family? When is the last time you had dinner with us? Helped with the homework? Had a conversation that did not involve your fantasy football league?” He did not answer and just stomped off toward the garage.
That night, after putting the kids to bed with the assurances that yes, Daddy still loved them, and no, this was not their fault, I collapsed onto the couch. Mike would move the rest of his things out by the dawn. Then maybe, just maybe, we could start the healing.
The sound of the metal scraping against the wood jolted me awake the next morning. I rushed downstairs to find Mike, the screwdriver in hand. He was removing the front door handle. “What are you doing?” I asked, rubbing my sleepy eyes. “Taking what is mine,” he replied without looking up as the handle came loose in his palm. “I bought these when we moved in. Remember? You wanted the cheap ones.”
I stood frozen, watching as he moved methodically from door to door. The back door. The side entrance. The basement. All the handles and the locks were gathered in a plastic bucket at his feet. “Mike, this is ridiculous.” “Is it?” He finally looked up, and a strange satisfaction flickered in his eyes. “I BOUGHT IT, SO IT IS MINE.”
I could have argued. Could have pointed out that the marital property does not work that way. Could have reminded him that our children were upstairs, learning terrible lessons about the love, the loss, and the pettiness. Instead, I just watched him work, knowing he was waiting for a reaction. I gave him none. Because when a man starts measuring his worth in the small things, you have already won.
“You are not going to stop me?” he asked, clearly disappointed by my lack of reaction. “No, Mike. I am not. Take whatever you need to feel whole again.”
Hours later, the house was quieter than it had been in the years. No TV blaring the sports commentary. No Mike muttering about his fantasy lineup. Just me and the kids, playing the board games on the floor where our beanbags used to be, laughing harder than we had in the months. “Mom,” Emma said that night as I tucked her in, “are we going to be okay?” I smoothed her hair back. “We already are, sweetie.”
Three days of the blessed peace followed. Three days of the new routines and deeper breaths. Three days until my phone lit up with Mike’s name. I hesitated before answering. “Hello?” “Alice?” His voice sounded different and… smaller. “What do you want?” “I… I need your help.” I settled onto the couch, tucking my feet under me. “With what?”
“It is the door handles.” He sounded almost like he might cry. “The ones I took.” “What about them?” He exhaled shakily. “I am staying at my mom’s, you know that, right?” I did know. Margaret, his widowed mother, had always kept an immaculate home in Oakridge Estates, fierce about her privacy and her property. She had taken Mike in, probably hoping it was temporary.
“I thought I would surprise her,” he continued. “Replace her old door handles with the ‘better’ ones I took from our home…” “Excuse me??” “Fine, fine… YOUR home. I just wanted to make myself useful, you know?” “Okay, so…?” My brows pulled together, and I could already see where this was headed. “So this morning, after she left for her book club, I got to work. I was in a rush because I had that interview for the management position I told you about… remember?” “I remember.”
“I got all the handles replaced, but then… the front door. The key broke off inside the new lock.” I bit my lip, fighting the urge to laugh. “So you are locked in?” “Both doors! Front and back! I tried the windows, but she had them painted shut last summer. And I have this interview in THIRTY minutes!”
The desperation in his voice was real, and despite everything, a small part of me ached for him. The bigger part, though, remembered the look on Emma’s and Ethan’s faces when their dad took their beanbags. “Do you have any spare keys?” he asked. “Anything?” “Mike, you demanded every key when you left.” “I know, I know, but… maybe you found one? Please, Alice. My mom will kill me if she comes home and finds out I messed with her doors. You know how she is about that house.”
I did know. Margaret had preserved her home exactly as it was when her husband died 15 years ago… custom oak doors included. “Let me check,” I said, setting the phone down. I did not move for the ten whole minutes. Just sat there, sipping my fresh coffee, imagining Mike trapped in his mother’s house, panicking as the minutes ticked toward his interview.
When I picked up the phone again, I made sure my voice was apologetic. “I am sorry, Mike. I do not have anything.” His groan was so dramatic I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “Could you… would you come over and help? Break a window or something?” “Break your mother’s window? Are you serious?” “I do not know what else to do! If I call a locksmith, they will scratch her doors getting in. She will never forgive me.”
I considered my ex-husband’s predicament. The man who had taken the door handles from his children’s home out of spite was now imprisoned by those very same handles. “Have you tried the windows upstairs?” I suggested mildly. “Maybe one of them opens.” Silence. Then: “I… I did not think of that.” “If you find one that opens, you could maybe climb down? Use the garden trellis? The one with the pink roses?” “That is… yeah. I could try that.” Another pause. I could almost hear him deflating. “Good luck with your interview, Mike.”
“Yeah, thanks! And… Alice?” “Hmm?” “I am sorry about the beanbags.” I closed my eyes and smiled. “I know.” “I will bring them back. And the TV. And—” “Keep the TV, Mike. We do not need it. But the kids would like their beanbags back.” “Okay.” He sounded relieved. “I should go try those windows.” “Good luck,” I said again, and I meant it.
After we hung up, I sat quietly, the coffee cooling between my palms. There was no satisfaction in Mike’s predicament, not really. Just a strange sense of things coming the full circle.
The beanbags appeared on our porch the next day. No note or knock on the door… just two lumpy shapes in the trash bags. Emma squealed when she saw them. “Daddy brought them back!” Ethan hugged his beanbag, burying his face in the fabric. “Does this mean Daddy is coming back too?” I knelt beside him. “No, sweetheart. But it means he is remembering what matters.”
That evening, as the kids played in their reclaimed beanbags, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Mike, holding a small paper bag. “These are for you,” he said, handing it over. Inside were three shiny new door handles with the matching keys. “You did not have to—” “Yes, I did.” He looked past me to where the kids were playing. “I had to climb down a two-story trellis and fell into my mom’s rose bushes. Missed my interview. Got a lecture from Mom about respecting other people’s property that I will probably be hearing in my dreams for the years.”
Despite everything, I felt a smile tug at my lips. “How very karmic of the universe!” “Yeah, well.” He shuffled his feet. “Can I say hi to them before I go?” I stepped aside to let him in, watching as he crossed to our children. They did not rush to him like they once would have, but they did not turn away either.
As I closed the door behind him—a door that still worked perfectly fine without its fancy handle—I realized something: there is a difference between what we own and what matters. Mike learned that the hard way. And I learned when to let go. Sometimes, the things we think we cannot live without are exactly the things that set us free once they are gone.
