Once the kids were asleep one night, I walked into his beloved garage. I didn’t touch his restored motorcycle. I wasn’t cruel.
But I did open his locked toolbox. The password was laughably predictable. I removed every carefully organized metal tool and ran them through the dishwasher on the hottest cycle.
When they came out warped and rusted, I felt no guilt—only clarity. Then I took his favorite blazer—the one he swore brought him luck during major deals—and sent it to the cleaners with my red hospital scrubs. The result was spectacular.
I wasn’t done. I canceled his subscriptions. Rescheduled meetings.
Replaced his playlists with children’s music. Set alarms he couldn’t silence easily. Finally, when the kids recovered, I planned my own vacation.
A luxury staycation just a short drive away. Spa treatments. Room service.
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