They arrived arm in arm, glowing from their honeymoon—my ex-husband of twenty-five years and Abby, his new trophy wife. They expected a warm welcome in the home I had built. Instead, they found scarlet tape crisscrossing the halls, wrapping doorways, claiming every room but one.

“What is this?” Abby asked, her smile faltering.

“It marks what still belongs to me,” I said. “You’ve moved in two weeks before you move out. Everything beyond that tape is off-limits.”

Their confidence cracked. I left them a small corner to stew while I reclaimed my house, my peace, and myself. That night, instead of heartache, I felt relief.

Over the days that followed, I tended my garden, unpacked keepsakes, and found my strength again. My daughter called from college: “Mom, you did the right thing.” Her words lit a spark I thought was gone.

Abby eventually crumbled under the weight of her choices, leaving him hollow and alone. When he begged for forgiveness, I gave it—not for him, but for myself. By then, my life was already moving forward.

A friend offered me a seaside cottage, and there I painted my pain into colors of freedom. What began as therapy grew into Red Tape Art Studio, a space where women came to heal, create, and begin again.

My red tape was never about anger—it was about boundaries, rebirth, and the courage to start over.

And in every brushstroke, I found the truth: I wasn’t broken. I was becoming.