When my husband of ten years walked out, he decided to take anything he’d ever “paid for.” The TV, the blender, even the kids’ beanbags. I didn’t fight him — I’d learned by then that silence can be more powerful than any argument.
The next morning, I found him with a screwdriver, removing every door handle in the house. Front door, back door, basement — all gone, dropped into a plastic bucket. “I bought them,” he said with smug satisfaction.
I just let him work. If a man needs door handles to feel victorious, you’ve already won.
Three blissfully quiet days passed. Then my phone rang — it was him, sounding panicked. He’d installed those same handles at his mother’s house to “be helpful,” but the key snapped in the front door. Both entrances locked, windows painted shut, and he had a job interview in thirty minutes.