On my birthday, Jason came home late, skipped the dinner I’d made, and forgot the day entirely. It was one of many signs our marriage was crumbling. Three weeks later, I came home early to find the locks changed and a note on the door in his handwriting: This is no longer your home. When he opened the door, he was standing there with Mia — the “just a friend” coworker — wearing my robe. They’d boxed my things in the garage and told me to move on.
I drove straight to my sister Paula’s. Over wine, we pieced together a plan. Every major purchase in that house — furniture, appliances, renovations — I had paid for, and I had receipts for everything. A lawyer friend confirmed I had legal rights and suggested I take my belongings back, preferably with the police present. I decided it would be even better if Jason and Mia watched it happen.
That Saturday, I showed up with a moving crew. We unplugged the washing machine mid-cycle, took the oven while a pie baked, stripped the bed, packed the couch, TV, vanity — everything I’d bought. I even plucked the straightener from Mia’s hand. Jason yelled, but I calmly showed him the receipts. “You changed the locks illegally,” I told him. “I could take you to court, but this is more satisfying.”
As the last box was loaded, I walked out, leaving them in an empty house. They looked humiliated, furious, and utterly powerless. I drove away smiling. After everything he’d done — the lies, the affair, locking me out of my own home — it felt like the perfect ending.