“Free Stuff” or Sweet Revenge? How My Ex’s Spiteful Act Backfired Perfectly
After Brendan and I separated, he morphed into a man I could barely recognize. The loving partner I once knew had turned into someone bitter, vengeful, and cold. His anger had become a weapon, and I was often the target.
“You’re criticizing my tone now?” Brendan snapped one night as we argued over the phone.
“I’m asking you to talk to me like a human being,” I replied, my voice barely holding steady. “Yelling isn’t communication.”
“Oh, spare me, Gina,” he hissed. “You made me this way. Years of your nagging, your whining—you shaped the monster. Congratulations.”
That was the moment I knew. There was no going back. I needed peace. I needed to breathe.
So I packed an overnight bag and went to my parents’ house for the weekend. I needed to escape—to think, to cry, to feel something other than this heavy, gnawing despair.
“Run home to Mommy and Daddy,” Brendan had muttered as I zipped my suitcase.
“They're better people than you’ll ever be,” I said, walking out.
And they were. My mom welcomed me with warm hugs and roast lamb. My dad ran to the store for anything I wanted without hesitation. Their dog, Pippy, became my walking companion, a silent therapist with soft fur and patient eyes.
At dinner, my father asked gently, “Are you sure about the divorce?”
I nodded, tears threatening. “If there was ever a chance to fix it, we missed it a long time ago. I don’t think there’s love left. Just ashes.”
They listened. They didn’t judge. They let me rest. And when Monday morning came, I finally felt a sliver of clarity. I was ready to return home, pack up what was mine, and begin again.
But what greeted me wasn’t home.
It was chaos.
My furniture—everything I’d collected over the years, including pieces from before I even met Brendan—was scattered across the front lawn like a yard sale gone rogue. There was even a handmade sign planted in the grass:
“FREE STUFF!”
I blinked. No. No, this wasn’t real.
I ran to my grandmother’s rocking chair, which sat under the unforgiving sun like some discarded relic. I found my bookshelf. My coffee table. My lamps. All mine. All vulnerable to passing strangers.
My hands shook as I dialed Brendan. When he answered, he sounded relaxed. Pleased.
“What’s up, Gina?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.
“What’s up?” I barked. “Why the hell is my furniture on the lawn?”
“Oh, that,” he said, oozing smugness. “You were going to take me to the cleaners anyway. I overheard your phone call—plotting to get half my money. So I figured I’d let you know what it feels like to lose something.”
I was stunned into silence.
“I wasn’t going to sue you,” I finally said. “I was trying to move on. But you’ve made it clear who you are now.”
He scoffed. “Your stuff’s free now. Maybe you should’ve charged for it.”
I hung up. What else was there to say to a man so consumed by his own bitterness?
As I stood there, defeated, I gave one of the old bedside tables a frustrated kick—and heard a soft jingling. Curious, I crouched and opened the drawer.
And that’s when I found it.
Brendan’s father’s watch.
A family heirloom passed down for generations. Brendan never wore it—he said it was too precious, too fragile. It was the one item he valued more than anything else in the world.
And now, thanks to his own stupidity, it was mine.
“Oh, Brendan,” I murmured, slipping the watch into my pocket. “Checkmate.”
I called my friends. We hauled everything back inside. Some things had been taken, sure. But the most valuable thing? That was safe in my glove compartment.
Later that night, my phone buzzed.
“Hey, Gina… I think I left something important in the bedside drawer. Can I come get it?”
I smiled as I bit into a slice of pizza. “The neighbors helped themselves to a few things. Pretty sure the bedside tables are gone. But maybe Cathy picked it up. If you’re nice, she might sell it back.”
There was silence on the other end.
“My dad’s watch,” he finally said. “My grandfather’s watch. I need it.”
“Oh, that. Yes, Cathy has it,” I said casually. “I imagine she’d return it… for the right price.”
I could hear the disbelief in his voice. He knew I was bluffing. But he couldn’t prove it. And I wasn’t letting him off that easy.
“How much?” he asked.
“Well, heirlooms are priceless. But I’d guess... five hundred?”
“Fine,” he growled. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
True to his word, he showed up with an envelope.
“$500,” he muttered. “But you know what it’s worth.”
I nodded and handed him the watch.
“Thanks,” I said. “Now leave. My lawyer will be in touch.”
He paused like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t.
He just walked away, slower than usual. Defeated.
And I sat on the porch, sipping my coffee with the quiet joy of someone who’d just reclaimed a piece of their dignity.