The man who hadn’t known where we kept the extra lightbulbs for five years suddenly became an expert on every receipt we’d ever generated. He didn’t want a settlement; he wanted a “repossession.”
He spent three days hauling boxes out. He took the 65-inch TV. He took the high-end blender I used every morning for the kids’ smoothies. He even took the kids’ beanbag chairs, ignoring the confused, tearful stares from our nine-year-old.
“I bought it, so it’s mine,” he’d grunt, his face a mask of bitter satisfaction.
The breaking point—or what should have been the breaking point—came on his final trip. I walked into the hallway to find him with a screwdriver and a crowbar. He was systematically removing every front door handle and deadbolt in the house.
“Mark, are you serious?” I asked, leaning against the wall, exhausted beyond words. “I paid for these designer locks when we renovated,” he snapped, not looking up. “I bought it, so it’s mine. Buy your own handles, Sarah.”
I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream. I just stood there and watched him strip the house of its security, leaving nothing but gaping holes in the wood. He hauled his bag of stolen hardware to his truck and drove off, leaving me in a house that literally couldn’t be locked.
I spent that evening with my brother, who helped me install cheap, temporary hardware from a 24-hour hardware store. I felt a strange sense of peace. The “stuff” was gone, but so was the tension.
Three days later, my phone rang. It was Mark.
He didn’t sound triumphant anymore. He sounded frantic, breathless, and—strangely—distant, as if he were calling from a tunnel.
“Sarah? Sarah, you need to call the police to my new place. Right now!” “What? Mark, what happened?” “I’ve been robbed!” he yelled. “They took everything. The TV, the sound system, my computer… even the damn blender!”
I sat down on the sofa—the one thing he hadn’t been able to fit in his truck. “How did they get in, Mark? Did they break a window?”
There was a long, pregnant pause on the other end of the line. I could almost hear the gears grinding in his head.
“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “They didn’t break anything. They just… walked in.”
It turned out Mark had been so proud of his “haul” that he’d spent the weekend installing those high-end, designer handles and deadbolts on his new bachelor pad. They were beautiful, expensive, and—as he had forgotten in his rush to be spiteful—programmed to a smart-key system.
Mark had the physical keys, but in his haste to leave, he’d forgotten that the entire security system was linked to a master hub… which was still plugged into my Wi-Fi.
More importantly, he had forgotten about the “Emergency Entry” feature we’d set up for the kids’ babysitter. A feature that allowed the door to be unlocked via a specific sequence of handle-taps and a Bluetooth proximity trigger.
The “robbers” weren’t random. Mark had bragged about his “loot” to one of his “buddies” from the bar—the same guys he’d prioritized over his family. One of them had seen the expensive locks, remembered the “cool trick” Mark had shown them about the easy-entry sequence months ago during a BBQ at our house, and simply waited for Mark to go to work.
He had literally installed the “Open Sesame” for his own downfall.
“Mark,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “You told me those locks were yours because you bought them. You took them. You installed them. Whatever happens to your stuff now is between you and the police.”
“But Sarah, the insurance! They’re saying because there’s no sign of forced entry, they might not cover the full value of the electronics! You have to tell them the locks were…”
“The locks were yours, Mark,” I interrupted. “Just like you wanted.”
I hung up. I looked around my half-empty house. It was quiet, but for the first time in a decade, it wasn’t heavy. I had no designer handles, no fancy blender, and no TV. But I had my kids, a door that finally felt closed on the past, and the sweetest realization of all:
Sometimes, when people insist on taking exactly what they deserve, you should just let them.
