After ten years of marriage and two kids—6 and 9—I knew our “happily ever after” was over. The man I had married had slowly dissolved into a roommate who didn’t pull his weight, and then into a stranger who didn’t care to. There was no love left, no help with the kids’ homework or the endless piles of laundry, just long nights he spent with his buddies and a heavy, suffocating silence at home.
When I finally filed for divorce, I was hoping for a clean break. I wanted an amicable split for the sake of the children. Instead, Mark got petty. He didn’t care about the house or the savings; he cared about the “stuff.” He made a list of every item he had ever paid for, demanding the TV, the blender, and even the kids’ beanbags. It was exhausting, but I let it go. Objects can be replaced; peace of mind cannot.
Then came the final straw. I came home one afternoon to find him in the hallway with a toolbox. He wasn’t just packing boxes anymore. I caught him ripping off every front door handle and door lock in the house, muttering, “I BOUGHT IT, SO IT’S MINE.”
I stood there, watching him unscrew the deadbolt from the front door, leaving a gaping, useless hole in the wood. My instinct was to scream, to tell him he was leaving his children in a house that couldn’t be locked. But I took a deep breath and remembered my lawyer’s advice: Don’t engage. I let him. No arguing. I just waited until he finished, threw the hardware into a cardboard box, and finally drove away, leaving me with a house that literally could not be closed to the world.
I spent that evening with a handyman, replacing every lock and handle with brand-new, high-security versions. It cost a fortune I didn’t want to spend, but as the new keys turned smoothly in the locks, I felt a sense of security I hadn’t felt in years.
I never expected karma to strike so quickly. But three days later, he called.
His voice wasn’t the usual smug, entitled tone I had grown to loathe. He sounded frantic, even a little bit humbled.
“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “I… I’m at the new apartment. The landlord is furious.”
“Why would I care about your landlord, Mark?” I asked, leaning against my newly secured front door.
“The locks,” he groaned. “The door handles. I installed them all here because, you know, I paid for them. But the landlord did a surprise inspection today for the fire alarm system. He says I’ve violated the building code and the lease agreement by ‘tampering with the structural hardware’ and installing ‘unauthorized locking mechanisms’ on a rental unit.”
I suppressed a laugh. “And?”
“And he’s filed for an emergency eviction because I ‘compromised the security of the building’ and damaged the doors. He’s also keeping my entire five-thousand-dollar security deposit to pay for professional restoration and ‘damages to historical fixtures.'”
But that wasn’t the best part. Mark went on to explain that in his haste to prove he “owned” the locks, he had forgotten one very important detail.
The locks he took from our house were ten years old. They were high-end, custom designer sets that we had picked out together when we first moved in. They required specific, recessed carvings in the doors. When he forced them into his cheap apartment doors, he had splintered the wood beyond repair.
Furthermore, because he had taken the entire mechanism but had lost the original strike plates in his messy move, he had actually locked himself out of his own bedroom for six hours the night before. He’d had to call an emergency locksmith to drill through the very hardware he had fought so hard to steal.
The locksmith’s bill? $450.
“So,” I said, my voice calm and sweet. “It sounds like those door handles ended up being pretty expensive for you.”
“Can I just… can I come get the old ones back? Maybe if I put them back on your house, the landlord will see it was a mistake?”
“Oh, Mark,” I sighed. “I already had new ones installed. The old holes didn’t fit the new standard locks, so the handyman had to fill and sand the wood. Your old ‘property’ is currently sitting in a bin at the local scrapyard. I believe they give about five cents a pound for scrap brass.”
There was a long, stunned silence on the other end of the line.
“I have to go now,” I said. “The kids and I are about to have dinner. And for the record? I bought the groceries. So they’re mine.”
I hung up and turned the deadbolt. It made a solid, satisfying click. For the first time in a decade, I wasn’t just locked in; I was finally, truly, free.
The Great Lock Mystery (From Leo’s and Maya’s Perspective)
Leo (9 years old): “Mom always said divorce was hard, but honestly, it was mostly just confusing. Like, one day Dad was here, shouting about the TV remote, and the next day he was gone. And then the door handles started disappearing!
I remember walking in, and Mom was just standing there, watching Dad yank off the shiny gold handle from the front door. He was mumbling about ‘his stuff,’ and I was like, ‘Dad, how are we supposed to get in the house?’ He just grunted and threw it in a box. Maya started crying because her beanbag was in that box too. It was purple! Dad always hated purple.
After he left, the house felt… weird. Like a gaping mouth. Mom got this super nice man with a mustache to come over. He had a cool toolbox. He spent hours putting in new, silver handles. They felt way stronger. And the click when you turned the lock? Super satisfying. Mom kept trying it, like she was testing it out. She even smiled, which she hadn’t done much lately.
A few days later, Mom was on the phone, and I heard her say, ‘Five cents a pound for scrap brass.’ Maya and I looked at each other. Five cents? Dad loves money! We also heard her say something about ‘historically significant door handles’ and an ’emergency eviction.’ We didn’t really get it, but Mom was smiling again, a really big smile. And she made our favorite lasagna that night. I think the new door handles were magic.”
Maya (6 years old): “My purple beanbag! Dad took it! It was my comfy spot for reading. When he ripped off the door handle, it was scary. It looked like the house was broken. I thought a monster could just walk in!
But then the nice man came, and he made the doors better. The new handles were smooth, and they sparkled. And the lock, it made a happy sound, like cha-CHING! Mom let me help put the little screws in, even though I mostly just held them for her.
When Mom was on the phone, she looked super happy. She was laughing, like she hadn’t laughed in a long, long time. She said, ‘I bought the groceries. So they’re mine.’ And then she made my favorite! Lasagna with extra cheese.
Now, when I lock the door at night, it feels safe. Like the house is giving me a big hug. And my new beanbag is even better, it’s rainbow! I think the new door handles brought us good luck. No more angry shouts, just good smells and Mom’s happy laughs.”
