They walked in all smiles, hand in hand like the world had conspired just for them. My ex-husband of twenty-five years and his new wife—Abby, the much younger mistress he married right after our divorce. Still flushed from their honeymoon, they came back expecting to play house in the very home I built with my hands, my patience, and my years.But the red tape stopped them. It stretched across doorways, curled around furniture, zigzagged up the staircase like a silent warning. They froze the moment they saw it.
“What is all this?” Abby asked, her voice dripping with condescension. Her smile faltered as I met her gaze. “It’s my way of marking what’s mine,” I said, calm and clear.“Before you two start pretending this was ever your home.”
He stammered, visibly uncomfortable. Abby laughed nervously, but her eyes darted to the tape and back to me, unsure whether to be amused or afraid. I didn’t flinch.
A man on the phone | Source: Pexels
I simply explained that everything beyond the tape was off-limits. They had two weeks to find somewhere else. Until then, they could play house in the corners I left them.
Abby scoffed and tried to wave me off as dramatic. I smiled and told her, drama is thinking marrying someone else’s husband guarantees you a happy ending. Her cheeks flushed deeper than the tape itself.
That first night, I heard whispers and arguments behind closed doors. Instead of pain, I felt peace. The kind that comes from standing up for yourself.
I started packing my keepsakes, sorting through twenty-five years of memories. My daughter, Nina, called me from college and told me she was proud. That call lit something inside me I hadn’t felt in years—a spark of pride, of purpose.