When my husband Jason forgot my birthday, dismissed my feelings, and accused me of flaunting my success,
I saw it as a rough patch—until I came home to changed locks and a note saying I no longer lived there. Inside, Jason stood with Mia,
his “just a friend” coworker, wearing my robe, with my belongings boxed in the garage. They clearly expected me to leave quietly.
I went to my sister Paula’s, where she reminded me I’d bought nearly everything in that house except the mortgage.
With receipts and advice from a lawyer friend, I learned Jason’s lock stunt was illegal, and I could reclaim my property.
That Saturday, I arrived with a moving crew and took everything that was mine—washing machine mid-cycle, oven with a pie inside, bed,
vanity, TV, couch, and even my hair straightener from Mia’s hands. Jason protested, but I showed receipts and warned him about legal trouble.
By the time I left, the house was nearly empty, and they stood stunned. They might have changed the locks, but I left with my dignity—and every single thing I owned.
