My ex showed up on my doorstep one day, after I’d kicked him out.
He handed me a bag with a dozen eggs and a half-pound of bologna. Okay.
I took it just to get him off my back.
Imagine my surprise when I met a mutual friend the same day and he said, “I saw Alex today, he was bragging that he’d already done something smart to get ‘his stuff’ back from you.”
I blinked. “What stuff?”
We weren’t married, thank God. But we’d lived together for almost two years. Long enough for lines to blur—whose blender was whose, who paid for what, and who technically owned the furniture. But when I told Alex to leave, I made it very clear: if he wanted anything, he had a week to arrange pickup. After that, I’d consider it abandoned. He didn’t show.
So what exactly had he “gotten back”?
That’s when it clicked.
The eggs. The bologna. The grocery bag.
I ran to the kitchen like a maniac, pulled the plastic bag from the trash, and dumped it onto the counter. Tucked under the lunch meat was a folded receipt. Grocery store logo on top. But the total was $0.00.
Paid in full. With a gift card.
Weird.
I flipped it over. On the back, in tiny letters: “Card balance: $284.19.”
I swore under my breath. He had slipped the grocery store gift card under the eggs, hoping I wouldn’t notice. That sneaky, manipulative little—
I called him. No answer. I texted: “Nice trick with the gift card. Come get your crap or I’m donating it.”
He replied three hours later with a winking emoji.
I should’ve thrown the card in the trash. I didn’t.
Not because I needed the money. I was doing fine. But it felt like holding onto a stolen trophy. I locked it in the drawer next to my insurance documents and forgot about it.
Or, tried to.
Until a week later, my doorbell rang again.
This time it wasn’t Alex. It was a woman holding a baby.
“Hi,” she said, shifting the diaper bag on her shoulder. “Are you… Lyra?”
I nodded slowly.
“I’m Dayna,” she said. “Alex’s girlfriend.”
Pause.
I blinked. “Ex.”
“No,” she said, “I’m his girlfriend. Current. I just found your address in his glove box. Can I talk to you?”
We stood awkwardly in the hallway. Her baby fussed, and she bounced him with practiced ease. She looked tired. Kind of beautiful, but in that raw, exhausted way new moms get.
I let her in.
She didn’t sit. Just stood near the door. “I just wanted to know something,” she said. “Did you kick him out? Or did he leave you?”
My mouth opened. Then closed.
I shrugged. “I kicked him out. He was cheating on me. With someone who kept calling at 3 a.m. I guess that was you.”
She flinched.
I immediately felt like a jerk.
“Sorry,” I said. “That was harsh. But yeah, I told him to leave.”
She nodded slowly, like something in her brain was clicking into place.
“He said you were still obsessed with him,” she said. “That you begged him to stay, then got violent when he said no.”
I let out a single, tired laugh.
“Yeah, I ‘got violent’ by packing up his Xbox and setting it on the porch.”
She looked around the apartment, then at me. Something about it felt…assessing.
Then she said, “He told me you stole from him.”
I held up my hand. “Let me guess—the blender, the air fryer, and a $300 grocery card?”
Her jaw clenched. “So it was his?”
I walked to the drawer, pulled it open, and handed her the gift card. “Tell him next time he wants to plant evidence, maybe don’t brag about it the same day.”
She took it. And for the first time, her eyes filled with tears.
“I maxed my credit card buying diapers this week,” she whispered. “He said he’d cover groceries. With this.”
I suddenly saw her differently.
Not as the girl who wrecked my relationship, but as someone stuck in the same sinking boat I’d just crawled out of.
“You hungry?” I asked.
She nodded.
So I made grilled cheese. And we sat, two strangers bound by the same mistake, feeding a baby and eating on mismatched plates.
The weirdest part? We laughed.
She told me how they met—some shady little music gig he played at, where he talked big about moving to Austin and “making it.” Told her I was his “crazy ex.”
Sounded familiar.
I asked where she lived.
“Nowhere right now,” she said. “We were crashing at his cousin’s, but they kicked us out after he pawned a PlayStation without asking.”
Classic Alex.
She looked up. “Can I ask… how long did it take for you to get over him?”
I tilted my head. “Not long after I realized I was never with who I thought I was.”
She stared at her sandwich. “I thought maybe I could fix him. That if I loved him harder…”
I shook my head.
“You’re not a rehab center.”
She wiped her eyes. Then her baby’s chin.
Before she left, she asked if she could keep my number. I said yes.
A week passed. Then two.
I didn’t hear from her, but I thought about her often. About how many women probably had a version of Alex in their past. Or worse, still in their present.
Then I got a message.
It was a screenshot. From Dayna.
A Facebook Marketplace post:
“Kitchen appliances, barely used—priced to sell! Moving out of state, must go ASAP.”
Photos of my blender. My air fryer. The dishes I bought last year.
Dayna’s caption:
“He’s trying to flip your stuff for gas money. Just FYI.”
I replied:
“What address did he list?”
She sent it. I smiled.
It was five blocks away.
I showed up that afternoon.
He didn’t see me at first. He was too busy haggling with a couple over the toaster oven I bought at Target last Black Friday.
I walked right up, looked him dead in the eyes, and said, “Guess who kept the receipts.”
He blanched.
The couple backed away slowly, and I held up a manila envelope. Inside: every single purchase slip for the items on that table.
I said loudly, “These were never yours to sell. This is theft.”
He started sputtering about “joint property” and “emotional damage,” whatever that meant.
I pulled out my phone.
“Want to explain that to the police? Or should we call them together?”
He backed off.
Fast.
Left everything behind. Didn’t even look at Dayna, who had shown up behind me.
She whispered, “I told him I was done. He didn’t believe me.”
Now he did.
We split the stuff in the trunk of her car. I let her keep the air fryer.
“I don’t cook,” I shrugged.
She smiled.
A month later, I got a text:
“Guess who got a job at the bakery on 4th? 🙂 Come by sometime—coffee’s on me.”
I did.
The baby was in a little bassinet behind the counter, snoring softly. Dayna wore an apron dusted with flour and looked like a new woman.
I gave her a hug.
We never would’ve been friends under normal circumstances. But what’s normal, really?
Sometimes the worst people in your life bring you the best surprises.
Like grilled cheese. And backup.
And the reminder that you’re not alone.
If you’ve ever escaped a relationship that made you feel smaller instead of bigger—share this.
If you’re in one, and you don’t know how to leave—ask someone.
There’s always someone who’s been through it too.
We’ve got you. 💛
Like & share if this hit home. Let someone else know they’re not crazy—just waking up.
