My ex-husband showing up early on a Saturday should’ve told me trouble was coming. Jake always wore the same look when he was about to do something selfish—rigid jaw, puffed chest, full of entitlement. I let him in anyway, too tired to argue.
I’m Rachel, 34, raising two kids—Oliver, five, thoughtful and fair, and Mia, three, pure sunshine. After Jake left us for another woman, Amanda, he turned the divorce into a battlefield. Bills, furniture, even cutlery—he fought me on everything. Meanwhile he played doting stepdad to Amanda’s son, Ethan, pretending he’d become a brand-new man.
I rebuilt our life the best I could: repainted the kids’ room, bought secondhand toys, worked overtime. Slowly, the kids found stability again.
Then Jake barged in claiming he’d come for “his things.” Instead, he headed straight to the kids’ room and opened a gym bag.
“I paid for most of their toys,” he said. “I’m taking them.”
I was stunned. He started grabbing Legos, dinosaurs, even Mia’s dollhouse. Oliver’s face fell. “Dad, you said the pirate ship was mine forever.” Jake ignored him. Mia sobbed when he tried to pull the dollhouse from her hands.
Something in me broke.
“Stop. Leave,” I said.
“They’re mine,” he insisted.
“No. Once you gave them to your kids, they became theirs.”
He tried to push past me—then a voice froze him in place.
“Jake.”
His mother, Carla, stood in the doorway. She’d come to take the kids to the park and had witnessed everything.
“I watched you steal from your own children,” she said coldly. “Explain how that makes you a father.”
Jake stammered excuses. Carla didn’t budge.
“You want to give their toys to your mistress’s son? After abandoning your kids? I’m ashamed of you.”
Then she delivered the blow.
“I’ve removed you from my will. Everything goes to Oliver and Mia. They deserve it. You don’t.”
Jake went pale. He dropped the bag and stormed out.
Carla knelt beside the crying kids. “No one will ever take anything from you again,” she promised.
But karma wasn’t finished.
A few weeks later, Amanda dumped him the moment she learned he’d lost access to any inheritance. Suddenly Jake had nothing to offer her—and she didn’t pretend otherwise.
He called me one night, devastated. “Amanda left. She said I’m worthless now.”
“Now you know how your kids felt,” I said and hung up.
Jake tried coming back, apologizing, bringing flowers. The kids wouldn’t go near him. The damage was permanent.
“I’m done,” I told him. “And so are they.”
The door shut, and this time, it stayed shut.
Karma didn’t strike like lightning—it took its time, letting Jake ruin everything himself. And when it was over, it was just me, my children, and a peace we’d long deserved.