After 10 years of marriage to Mike and two kids—6 and 9—I knew our “happily ever after” was over. No love, no help, just nights with his buddies and silence at home. I filed for divorce, hoping for a clean break.

Mike’s response? A room-by-room inventory of every item he believed belonged to him. He appeared in the doorway, his expression cold.

“I’m taking the TV in the living room.”

“Fine.” I kept my voice steady for the kids. “And the blender. I paid for these things.”

“Whatever you want, Mike.

You can dig up the toilet too. Go ahead… claim it in the name of ‘I paid for it.’ Want the septic tank while you’re at it?”

His eyes narrowed.

“The beanbags in the playroom. I paid for those.”

Emma’s lower lip trembled. “But Daddy—”

“They’re mine,” he snapped, cutting her off.

“I bought them.”

If that wasn’t enough, the next morning I caught him ripping off every front door handle and door lock, muttering, “I BOUGHT IT, SO IT’S MINE.”

I let him. No arguing. I just waited until he finished and finally went away.

I never expected karma to strike. But three days later, he called, ALMOST CRYING. After the divorce he moved in with his mom.

Genius replaced her locks with the ones he ripped from our house. Rushing to a job interview, the cheap lock jammed and he snapped the key inside. Trapped, he begged me for spares he’d demanded back.

I almost laughed. “Why not call a locksmith?” I asked. He whispered, terrified his mom would notice scratched doors and kick him out.

I “looked” but had none. Then I suggested, “Climb out a window. Ask her to use her key when she’s home.” Silence… then defeat.

“Thanks.” I sipped my coffee, smiling: divorcing him was the best decision I ever made.