After thirteen years of marriage, I finally divorced Derek and started rebuilding my life with our three kids. That October, we went all out decorating for Halloween, and for the first time in months, the kids were happy again. Then one afternoon, we came home to something that made me realize just how far Derek was willing to go to hurt me.
I knew something was wrong when my youngest daughter stopped at the edge of our lawn.
“Mommy, where’s my pumpkin?”
Then I noticed the front door.
Lucy’s crooked little jack-o’-lantern had vanished. The others lay smashed across the grass, their insides scattered among our ruined Halloween decorations.
Then I noticed the front door.
The wood around the lock had splintered.
I pulled my three children back toward the car and reached for my phone.
Weeks earlier, that house had finally begun feeling like ours.
“Raising kids and taking care of the house is women’s work.”
I spent thirteen years married to Derek, who considered taking out the trash a sacrifice.
“Can you watch Lucy while I make dinner?” I’d ask.
“Football’s on.”
“Could you pick Mason up after practice?”
“I’ve got plans.”
His answer never changed.
I filed for divorce two months later.
“Raising kids and taking care of the house is women’s work.”
Harper stood in the hallway.
She looked down at the laundry basket she was carrying and quietly put it back.
I filed for divorce two months later.
The house belonged to me before our marriage. When Derek moved in with his mother, Linda, she blamed me.
“Men need time to themselves.”
“You’ve embarrassed him,” she told me.
“I asked him to parent his children.”
“Men need time to themselves.”
“So do women.”
She hung up.
Our divorce was finalized in September. I received primary custody, while Derek had scheduled parenting time.
Harper suggested decorating for Halloween.
Outside the courthouse, he pointed at me.
“You’ll regret this. You’ll come crawling back on your knees begging me to forgive you!”
I walked away.
October brought a little peace.
Harper suggested decorating for Halloween.
“Like we used to,” she said, then added, “Before everybody got mad.”
One evening, while I was tucking Lucy into bed, she caught my wrist.
Mason, eleven, made cardboard gravestones. Eight-year-old Harper cut paper ghosts. Lucy, who was five, insisted her pumpkin needed a smile because “scary faces make the candy nervous.”
One evening, while I was tucking Lucy into bed, she caught my wrist.
“Are we still a family?”
“Always.”
“Even when Daddy lives with Grandma?”
“You’re allowed to ask me anything, buddy.”
“Even then.”
Later, Mason asked whether Dad was coming for Halloween.
“He hasn’t told me yet.”
“He said you won’t let him.”
I sat beside him.
“You’re allowed to ask me anything, buddy.”
On a Tuesday afternoon, someone destroyed the little peace we’d made.
“Did you make him leave because he didn’t love us?”
“No. I asked him to leave because we couldn’t keep living the way we were.”
He nodded, still unconvinced.
Then, on a Tuesday afternoon, someone destroyed the little peace we’d made.
Officers checked the house while we waited in the car. Once inside, I saw the damage.
Back at the car, Lucy searched the ruined porch for her pumpkin.
Kitchen drawers had been emptied onto the floor. A chair lay broken near the counter. The microwave was gone, along with the living room television and Mason’s game console, which all three children shared.
Back at the car, Lucy searched the ruined porch for her pumpkin.
“Maybe somebody moved it,” she whispered.
I knew she meant her pumpkin.
Before I could answer, our neighbor, Mr. Alvarez, hurried across the street.
“I watched her carry boxes out. I thought they were collecting his things.”
“Rachel, I saw who did it.”
I looked up.
“Derek came in a rental truck. His mother was with him.”
“Are you sure?”
“I watched her carry boxes out. I thought they were collecting his things.”
My stomach tightened.
“By the time I looked outside again, they were leaving.”
“You saw Linda carrying our things?”
