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“Ten minutes.”
I expected him to head toward the garage or maybe the hall closet. Instead, he walked straight down the hallway and pushed open the door to the kids’ bedroom. My heart stopped.
He didn’t answer.
He just stood there, scanning the shelves. His eyes moved over the Lego sets, the stuffed animals, and Mia’s dolls tucked carefully into their toy crib. His expression was calculating and cold.
Then he unzipped the gym bag he had brought with him.
“These,” he said, gesturing at the toys. “I paid for most of this stuff. They’re mine.
I’m taking them.”
For a moment, I couldn’t process what he was saying.
“No,” I argued, my voice shaking. “Absolutely not. Those are Oliver and Mia’s toys.
You cannot take them.”
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