They say you see someone’s true colors when a relationship ends. Mine glowed neon when my husband of ten years took all the door handles after our divorce—because he paid for them. I said nothing. Karma took care of the rest.
Three days later, he called, nearly in tears.
Just days before, I stood at the kitchen window, coffee cooling in my hands, rain streaking the glass. I wasn’t the same woman who’d said “I do” a decade ago. That woman had dreams and believed in forever.
“Mom! Emma took my dinosaur!” Ethan, six, stomped in.
“Did not!” Emma, nine, followed, indignant.
I knelt, fixing Emma’s braid. “Guys, we talked about sharing.”
“But Daddy never shares,” Emma muttered.
They’d noticed. Mike had slowly detached—his things meant more than family time.
“Where is Daddy?” Ethan asked.
“He’s packing some stuff,” I said. In truth, I’d filed for divorce three weeks ago. He got the papers yesterday.
Mike responded by listing everything he’d “paid for”—TV, blender, even the kids’ beanbags.
“Fine,” I said, calm for the kids’ sake.
That night, I reassured them: Daddy loved them, this wasn’t their fault. After they slept, I collapsed on the couch. Soon, he’d be gone for good.
The next morning, I woke to scraping sounds. Mike was unscrewing the door handles.
“You’re not serious,” I said.
“I paid for them,” he replied, dropping them into a plastic bucket.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t react. He wanted drama. I gave him silence.
“Not going to stop me?” he asked.
“No. Take what you need to feel whole again.”
Three peaceful days passed. Then he called.
“It’s the door handles,” he said. “I used them at my mom’s place. Got locked in. The key broke.”
He was stuck—literally—inside his mother’s house, late for a job interview.
“I don’t have a spare,” I said. He begged for help. Break a window, anything.
I told him to try the upstairs windows. “Maybe the rose trellis?” I suggested.
Silence. “Yeah… I’ll try that.”
Before hanging up, he added quietly, “Sorry about the beanbags.”
“I know,” I replied.
The next day, the beanbags were on the porch. No note, just two lumpy trash bags.
“Daddy brought them back!” Emma beamed.
“Is he coming home?” Ethan asked.
“No, sweetheart. But he’s remembering what matters.”
That evening, Mike showed up with a bag of new door handles.
“I had to climb down the trellis and fell into Mom’s rose bushes. Missed the interview. Got a lecture I’ll never forget.”
“Very karmic,” I said.
“Can I say hi to them?”
I let him in. They didn’t run to him—but they didn’t turn away.
As I closed the door—a door that worked fine even without its fancy handle—I realized something: there’s a difference between what we own and what matters. Mike learned that the hard way. I learned when to let go.