My Fiancé Demanded I Give Back Everything He Ever Gave Me or My Kids After He Cheated

My fiancé was supposed to be our forever happy place, but instead, he cheated and broke our hearts. Then he demanded I return everything he gave me and my kids… right down to a stuffed elephant. So I did. And karma delivered the rest.

My name’s Loren. I’m 35, widowed young, and mom to two amazing little kids. I met Brian at my sister’s barbecue in Millbrook, exactly 13 months after my husband died in that terrible accident on Route 9.

My kids were still raw from losing their dad. Simon was 10 and barely speaking. Nancy was seven and still crying herself to sleep most nights.

I wasn’t looking for love. I wasn’t looking for anything except maybe five minutes of adult conversation that didn’t involve goldfish crackers or cartoon characters.

Brian showed up with a six-pack and a crooked smile, and offered my kids lemonade without me asking. Real lemonade, not the powdered stuff.

He sat cross-legged on the grass with Nancy, making balloon animals out of napkins and twist ties from the bread bags. When Simon finally cracked a smile watching Brian’s pathetic attempt at a giraffe, my heart did this little flip.

“Is your favorite color blue?” Brian asked me later, nodding toward my sundress. He didn’t flirt like most guys.

“How did you guess?”

“Lucky guess. You look beautiful in it.”

I should have known that kind of charm comes with an expiration date.

For two years, Brian was everything I thought we needed. He remembered birthdays… not just mine, but the kids’ too, and planned them like mini-festivals.

He once biked across town in the rain because Nancy mentioned she wanted strawberry pancakes. He taught Simon how to ride that old bike we’d found at a garage sale, running alongside him in the driveway until my son finally pedaled away on his own.

Brian showed up with Chinese takeout on nights when I worked late at the diner, still in my uniform and smelling like coffee and regret.

He never moved in officially, but he was at our place more than he wasn’t. The kids stopped saying “Brian” and started saying “our Brian.”

The night he proposed, right there in our tiny living room with Nancy’s art projects still scattered on the coffee table, my daughter whispered in my ear, “Mommy, I hope he stays forever.”

I whispered back, “Me too, baby. Me too.”

Only “forever” lasted exactly eight more months.

It started small. Brian would come over after work and just sit, staring at the TV like it held the secrets of the universe. When I’d ask about his day, he’d grunt something about his job at the auto shop and reach for another beer.

“Brian, honey, you seem distant lately. Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine, Loren. Just tired.”

But tired doesn’t explain why you stop asking about your fiancée’s day. Tired doesn’t explain why you spend three hours at Murphy’s Bar instead of coming home to help with homework and bedtime stories.

One evening, after he’d barely spoken two words to the kids, I cornered him in the kitchen.

“We need to talk. Really talk. Maybe we should try counseling?”

Brian laughed. “Counseling? Are you kidding me? I’d never do that touchy-feely crap in my life. What’s next, you want me to journal about my feelings?”

I should’ve packed his things that night and trusted my gut when it screamed that this man was already gone. But I didn’t. Because I was an idiot who thought love could fix everything.

Then came the nights he’d vanish for hours with barely a word. Said he was out with the guys, catching up, and unwinding. But his excuses got sloppy. The gym didn’t stay open that late. And his so-called work buddies never had names.

I wanted to believe him… until I caught him at Romano’s Pizza on Third Street.

I’d stopped by to grab dinner after my shift, and there he was in a corner booth… with someone else. Some blonde from his work, holding hands like they were teenagers.

My hands shook as I paid for the pizza. I drove home in a daze, fed the kids, and got them ready for bed… all while my world crumbled around me.

When Brian finally showed up at 11:45 p.m., I was waiting.

“Have a good time at Romano’s?”

He froze in the doorway, keys still in his hand. For a second, I thought he might deny it, apologize, and beg for forgiveness.

Instead, he just shrugged. “Well, now you know!”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say, Loren? That I’m sorry? We both know this hasn’t been working for months.”

My vision blurred with tears I refused to shed in front of him. “GET OUT!”

“Fine. But I want everything back. Everything I ever gave you and your kids. Every single thing.”

He grabbed his phone from the counter and headed for the door.

“You’re serious? You want me to return gifts?”

“Dead serious. I paid for it… and I want it back. Every. Little. Thing.”

The door slammed behind him, leaving me standing in my kitchen, shaking with rage and disbelief.

That night, after I tucked the kids into bed and answered their questions about why Brian had left so angry, I sat on my bedroom floor and gathered everything — the Xbox he’d bought Simon for his birthday, the charm bracelet he’d given me for our six-month anniversary, and Nancy’s stuffed elephant from the county fair.

The half-empty boxes of chocolates, those cheap earrings from the gas station, and the perfume he’d bought me for Christmas… the one that made me feel pretty again after so many months of feeling invisible were all tossed into an old cardboard box from my closet.

The perfume bottle was nearly empty anyway, so I didn’t even bother closing it properly. I just tossed it in with everything else.

The box sat in the garage overnight while I tried to figure out what kind of person demands gifts back from children.

Next morning, I loaded the box into my car and drove to Brian’s house on Elm Street. I left it right on his front porch, rang the doorbell, and parked across the street to watch.

Brian opened the door in his ratty bathrobe, his hair sticking up like he’d been sleeping. He looked down at the box with confusion, then bent to lift the lid.

What happened next was better than any horror movie I’d ever seen.

A small black beetle crawled out first. Then a spider. Then what looked like an entire army of ants, drawn in by the sweet scent of spilled perfume and leftover chocolates during their overnight stay in my garage.

Brian’s face went from confusion to horror in about two seconds flat.

“AHHH! OH GOD! LOREN!” he screamed, jumping backward like the box had exploded. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?”

I’d forgotten about Brian’s ridiculous phobia. This grown man, who worked on cars all day and acted so tough, was absolutely terrified of bugs.

He was dancing around on his porch in his underwear and bathrobe, swatting at the air, making these high-pitched squealing sounds that had his neighbors peeking out their windows.

“GET THEM OFF! GET THEM OFF ME!”

My phone rang. Brian, of course.

“You need to get this disgusting crap off my porch right now! This is sick, Loren!”

I put on my sweetest voice. “Oh my goodness, Brian, what happened?”

“You know exactly what happened! You sent me a box full of bugs on purpose!”

“Bugs? Oh no! I just left the box in the garage overnight. Maybe the perfume and chocolates attracted them? You know, accidents happen!”

I paused for dramatic effect. “Or maybe it’s just karma!”

I watched from my car as Brian refused to go near the box for the next 20 minutes. Finally, his elderly housekeeper Mrs. Goldie came out, shaking her head at the grown man cowering in his doorway.

She grabbed the box with a disgusted look and dumped the whole thing in the dumpster at the curb.

After she went back inside and Brian finally stopped his ridiculous bug dance, I quietly walked over to the dumpster. Most of the contents were salvageable — the ants had moved on to more interesting places, and the Xbox just needed a good wipe-down.

That night, Simon got his gaming console back, Nancy hugged her elephant, and we made a nest of blankets on the living room floor. We ate popcorn and watched cartoons until way past bedtime, laughing until our sides hurt.

I don’t regret loving Brian. Love isn’t something you should regret, even when it doesn’t work out the way you planned.

But I do regret introducing that man to my children. I regret letting them get attached to someone who could walk away so easily. I regret teaching them that love could be conditional, and gifts could be taken back when feelings change.

Next time, if there is a next time… I’ll choose better. I’ll choose someone who doesn’t need therapy but isn’t too proud to get it. Someone who doesn’t think talking about feelings is weakness. Someone who would never, ever make my children cry.

And if that someone tries to hurt us? Well, karma and I make a pretty good team.

Sometimes the universe has a wicked sense of humor. The bad guys get exactly what they deserve, delivered by tiny creatures with six to eight legs and perfect timing!