When Jason forgot my birthday dinner, brushed off my hurt, and accused me of throwing my success in his face, I told myself marriage had rough patches. But weeks later, I came home to find the locks changed and a note: This is no longer your home. Inside, Jason stood with Mia—his “just a friend” coworker—wearing my robe. They’d packed my things in the garage, expecting me to disappear quietly.
Instead, I went to my sister Paula’s, where she reminded me I’d paid for nearly everything in that house except the mortgage. With years of receipts and a lawyer friend’s advice, I learned I could legally claim what was mine—and that changing the locks was illegal. I decided I wouldn’t just reclaim my things; I’d do it while they watched. The plan was set for Saturday.
At noon sharp, I arrived with a moving crew. We took my washing machine mid-cycle, my oven with a pie baking, the bed they slept in, my vanity, TV, and couch. I even plucked my hair straightener from Mia’s hands. Jason protested, but I waved my receipts in his face, reminding him everything I took was mine—and that his lock stunt could land him in legal trouble.
