It’s O.K. Yours is Coming

There’s a special kind of threat that only someone who once claimed to love you can deliver.

It’s not the loud, obvious kind. It’s not always screaming or slamming doors. Sometimes, it’s a text. Sometimes, it’s silence when your kids come home without the gear they need for sports—again. And sometimes, it’s a passive-aggressive “offer” of $25, framed like a gift from a god.

This weekend, my kids missed sports because their father kept their cleats and equipment in his car. No heads-up. No drop-off. Just silence.

Then came the phone call.

He demanded I go buy new cleats. I told him I was working and couldn’t. He smugly said he’d send me $25, as though I should be groveling with gratitude. When I said I didn’t want his money—and reminded him I pay for everything—he told me $25 is big to him, and that I still owed him.

I do not owe this man anything.

When our relationship ended, I cashed out his portion of retirement—his fair share—and handed it over. He blew through it in less than a month.

Then he said it:

“It’s ok. Yours is coming.”

I asked if he was threatening me. He started yelling. Gaslighting. Claiming I was threatening him, and that customers were listening and could “verify it.”

This is how abusers operate.

This is how the mask of “concerned father” quickly slips into Mr. Hyde.

Afterward, he followed up with texts—both privately and in a group chat that includes our children. His messages dripped with projection, false accusations, and veiled threats. Accusing me of removing him from parenting. Talking about karma. Calling me a liar.

Let’s talk about “removing him from parenting.”

I have bent over backwards to keep that door open for him—to the detriment of my own peace.

I’m the one who reminds him when it’s his time.

I’m the one who coordinates transportation.

I’m the one who makes sure the kids have groceries when they’re with him—because he often wouldn’t feed them. Not exaggerating. My children have missed meals in his care.

There was a time when my husband and I paid for hotel rooms, handed over food money, and created opportunities out of thin air just so he could spend time with his own kids. This was during one of his more elaborate lies—when he manipulated his way into a sober living program he didn’t even qualify for.

And still, I tried.

Even as he smoked weed constantly.

Even after he got high and ate their snacks.

Even when he made everything about control and nothing about care.

Even as he flipped the narrative again and again.

Because I believed that children should have access to both parents if it’s safe. I believed in trying.

But I’ve learned something.

Trying doesn’t work with someone who is committed to chaos.

Trying doesn’t work with someone who uses money, communication, and even basic needs like food as a tool for power.

It’s not about cleats. It never was.

It’s about control. It’s about image.

It’s about creating a version of reality where he is the victim, and I am the villain.

And while he is busy spinning stories, I am busy raising children.

I show up every day. I feed them. I cheer for them. I build their sense of safety and self-worth from the ground up. I model stability. I offer consistency. And when they’re hurting from his neglect, I’m the one who holds the pieces.

So no—I don’t owe him anything.

Not $25. Not access. Not energy.

And I certainly don’t owe him silence.

This is my truth. This is the reality behind the carefully constructed mask. And I’m not afraid to say it out loud.

Because while he hides behind edited texts and vague threats, I’m here.

Building. Healing. Protecting.

And I’ll never apologize for that.