When I came home and found my seven-year-old Ember sobbing, something felt wrong. She whispered, “Uncle Stan threw away my toys.” I found them all—stuffed animals, dolls, Legos—soaked and ruined in the trash, including her cherished teddy bear, Mr. Buttons. Stan stood in the doorway, calm but cold, saying he didn’t want “anything from your ex in this house.” I told him those were my daughter’s memories, not his to destroy.
Ember withdrew, stopped playing with him, and ate in silence. Days later, Stan demanded Ember call him Dad and cut off all contact with my ex. His kindness was conditional—he wanted to erase the past.
That night, I packed a bag for Ember and me. We left to stay with my mother. When we returned with Mark, I told Stan to leave. He took his ring and gifts, slamming the door behind him. Ember slept holding Mr. Buttons, and I knew: no man was worth my child’s tears.
