I stood at the window, coffee in hand, watching rain trail down the glass. The woman staring back at me wasn’t who I was ten years ago—she had dreams and believed in forever.
“Mom, Emma took my dinosaur!” Ethan stormed in.
“Did not! It’s mine!” Emma shot back.
I knelt beside them. “Guys, remember our talk about sharing?”
Emma muttered, “Daddy never shares.”
My heart sank. They’d noticed Mike drifting—choosing stuff and friends over family.
“Where is Daddy?” Ethan asked.
“He’s…packing some things,” I said. Truth was, I’d filed for divorce weeks ago. Yesterday, the papers were served.
Mike appeared. “I’m taking the TV.”
“Fine,” I said calmly.
“And the blender. I paid for it.”
“Take the septic tank too, if you want,” I muttered.
He didn’t stop—claimed the beanbags, upsetting Emma. “They’re mine,” he snapped.
After putting the kids to bed, I sat alone, bracing for the end. Mike would be gone by morning.
Except at dawn, he was still there—removing door handles. “I bought them,” he said coldly.
I didn’t react. He wanted drama. I wouldn’t give it.
“Not going to stop me?” he asked.
“No, Mike. Take whatever helps you feel whole again.”
Three peaceful days passed—until he called. “I need help,” he said. “I replaced my mom’s door handles with the ones I took. Now I’m locked in. My key broke. I have an interview in 30 minutes.”
I sipped my coffee. “Sorry, Mike. I don’t have any spares.”
“Can you come help? Break a window?”
“Try the upstairs window. The one near the rose trellis.”
Pause. “Right. Good idea.”
Before hanging up, he added, “I’m sorry about the beanbags.”
“I know.”
The next day, the beanbags returned—no note, just trash bags on the porch.
“Daddy brought them back!” Emma squealed.
“Is he coming back too?” Ethan asked.
“No, sweetie. But he’s remembering what matters.”
That evening, Mike showed up with door handles. “For you,” he said. “I fell into rose bushes, missed my interview, and got a lecture from Mom I’ll never forget.”
“Very karmic,” I smiled.
He asked to say hi to the kids. They didn’t run to him, but they didn’t turn away.
As I closed the door behind him, I realized: what we own doesn’t define us—what we choose to hold on to, and what we let go of, does.
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