After Cheating, My Fiancé Insisted I Hand Back Everything He Ever Gifted Me or My Children – So I Did, and Karma Handled the Rest Perfectly

My name is Loren. I’m 35, a widowed mother of two incredible kids, and until recently, I thought I’d found love again. But life has a strange way of showing you who people really are.

I met Brian at my sister’s barbecue. It had been a little over a year since my husband, Michael, died in a tragic car accident. My world had crumbled overnight, and I was barely holding things together for my kids, Simon and Nancy. They were 10 and 7 back then, still trying to make sense of a world without their dad.

That summer evening, Brian strolled into the backyard with a six-pack and a confident smile. He wasn’t flashy, just… easygoing. While the adults mingled, Brian made balloon animals out of napkins for Nancy. She giggled when he tried to shape a giraffe that looked more like a worm with legs. And when Simon laughed—really laughed, for the first time in months—I felt something stir in my chest.

Brian asked, “Is your favorite color blue?” and motioned toward my sundress.

“Lucky guess,” I said, surprised.

“You look beautiful in it,” he said.

It was simple. Kind. And after so many months of grief, it felt like fresh air.

For two years, Brian became part of our little world. He was there for birthdays, school plays, dentist appointments, even the nights I worked late at the diner. He brought takeout, folded laundry, helped Nancy with her math homework, and taught Simon how to ride a bike.

He never moved in officially, but he might as well have. The kids started calling him “our Brian.”

Then came the proposal.

It wasn’t fancy—just our cramped living room, my daughter’s crayons scattered across the floor, and Chinese takeout on the table. Brian knelt down and said, “Loren, I know I’m not perfect, but I want to be here for you. For Simon. For Nancy. Will you marry me?”

Nancy whispered, “I hope he stays forever.”

And I, like a fool, whispered back, “Me too.”

Eight months later, everything fell apart.

At first, it was subtle. Brian would show up late, distracted. He’d stare at the TV without speaking, sometimes for hours. When I asked about work, he’d grunt and reach for a beer.

“Brian, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

But tired doesn’t mean you ignore your kids. Tired doesn’t mean you stop saying “I love you.”

One night, I tried to reach him.

“I think we should talk. Maybe counseling could help?”

He scoffed. “Counseling? What, you think I need therapy now? That’s for weak people.”

It hurt, but I stayed. For the kids. For the man I thought I knew.

Then came the lies. The nights out with “friends,” the vague answers, the excuses.

Until one day, I walked into Romano’s Pizza to grab dinner after a long shift.

There he was. Brian. Sitting in a booth, holding hands with a woman I’d never seen.

I stood frozen. Paid for my order. Walked to my car. And cried.

When he got home that night, I was waiting.

“Romano’s?” I asked, my voice shaking.

He froze.

“You followed me?”

“I didn’t have to. I saw you.”

He shrugged. “Well, now you know.”

That was it. No apology. No remorse.

“Get out,” I said.

“Fine,” he snapped. “But I want everything back. Everything I gave you and the kids. The Xbox. The bracelet. Even that dumb elephant.”

I stood there, stunned. “You want gifts back from children?”

“I paid for them. They’re mine.”

He slammed the door.

I spent the night gathering everything. The bracelet, the perfume, the earrings, the Xbox, the stuffed elephant Nancy clutched when she missed her dad.

Nancy woke up. “Mommy, why are you taking Mr. Elephant?”

I knelt beside her. “Sweetheart, we’re giving him back. Brian asked for his things.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “But he said Mr. Elephant was just for me.”

“I know, baby. I’m sorry.”

The next morning, I loaded everything into a cardboard box. It had rained the night before, and I hadn’t closed the perfume bottle. Inside the box, the scent had drawn every bug in a ten-mile radius.

I drove to Brian’s place, rang the doorbell, and walked back to my car.

From across the street, I watched.

Brian opened the door in his robe. When he lifted the lid, he screamed.

Ants, spiders, and beetles poured out like a horror movie.

“AHHHH! LOREN!”

He jumped back, slapping his arms. “WHAT THE HELL?”

He called me.

“Loren, are you insane? You sent me a bug box!”

I smiled. “Oh no, Brian. I just left it in the garage overnight. I guess the perfume and chocolates invited some guests. Must be karma.”

He hung up.

Later, I walked back to the box. Most of it was salvageable. Simon got his Xbox back. Nancy, her elephant.

That night, we built a fort in the living room. We watched cartoons. We laughed.

“Mommy,” Nancy said, “Mr. Elephant smells weird.”

“That’s the smell of freedom, sweetheart.”

Love is a risk. But you don’t teach kids that love disappears when it’s inconvenient. You teach them it’s strong, brave, and never, ever petty.

Next time, I’ll choose someone who knows that.

And if they hurt us?

Well, karma and I are always ready.