For months, I’d been living in denial – ignoring the late nights, the unfamiliar perfume, the way his phone always seemed to face downward. When I finally confronted Sean about his affair with his assistant, his response was colder than I could’ve imagined:

“You already know. Let’s get divorced.”

No apology. No remorse. Just twelve years of marriage reduced to paperwork.

My support system rallied around me:

“He never deserved you!”
“You’ll find someone better!”
“At least there are no children involved!”

Their words were meant to comfort, but nothing could prepare me for Sean’s final demand. When his lawyer called to relay his “one last request,” I didn’t know whether to scre@m or sob.

Instead, I laughed. A wild, unhinged sound that echoed through our now-empty home. Because after everything – the betrayal, the emotional abandonment, the way he’d walked out without a backward glance – he had the nerve to ask for…

The air fryer.

Yes. The air fryer.

Not the car. Not the expensive speakers. Not even the dog we both loved and fought over. The man who cheated on me with his twenty-six-year-old assistant had his lawyer call mine to ask if he could have our Ninja dual-zone air fryer in the divorce settlement.

Apparently, his new apartment “didn’t have a full kitchen,” and he’d “really come to rely on it.” His lawyer said this with a straight face, as if this was a normal clause in a divorce.

At first, I thought it was a joke.

“What’s next? He wants visitation rights for the salad spinner?” I asked my lawyer, who cracked a smile for the first time in weeks.

But then I remembered the countless nights I’d made dinner while he sat on the couch, completely absorbed in his phone. I remembered how he always insisted on crispy chicken wings and how I’d figured out the perfect temperature and time settings just to please him. That stupid air fryer had become a symbol of our routine… of me doing everything, and him never noticing.

So, I gave it to him.

I wrote a little note and stuck it inside the drawer where the crisper plate went. It said:
“May this be the only thing you ever get that was cooked with love.”

Petty? Maybe. But it felt good.

After the dust settled, I found myself in a quiet apartment downtown. It was smaller, older, and didn’t have much in it. But it was mine. My little corner of peace.

I started over. Bought myself a tiny, one-person air fryer—on sale. Painted the walls a soft blue. Burned lavender candles. Played old soul records at night and danced barefoot in the kitchen. Healing looked like small joys, one after the other.

Until, one Saturday morning, I ran into someone I hadn’t seen in fifteen years.

I was in line at the farmer’s market when a familiar voice said, “Claire?”

I turned around and almost dropped my basket.

“Eli?”

He looked exactly the same. A bit more salt in his beard, a little more sun on his skin, but the same warm smile I remembered from college. We’d dated briefly during our senior year, but life had taken us in different directions. He moved to Oregon. I moved in with Sean.

After some awkward laughs and updates about mutual friends, he asked if I wanted to grab coffee. Just coffee, he said. Nothing serious.

But sometimes, the most unexpected things begin with something simple.

Eli was everything Sean wasn’t. Present. Kind. Funny in a dry, sarcastic way that caught me off guard. We started seeing each other casually, but it quickly grew into something more.

One evening, about six months into dating, I invited him over for dinner. I had my little air fryer working overtime on rosemary potatoes and salmon. When he walked into the kitchen, he smiled and said, “Smells incredible. You’re spoiling me.”

I laughed and rolled my eyes. “It’s just the air fryer.”

He tilted his head. “What’s so funny about that?”

I paused. And for the first time, I told him the whole air fryer story.

He didn’t laugh right away. Instead, he said, “It’s wild what people show you when they think they’ve already won.”

That stuck with me.

A year later, I was hosting a small get-together. A few girlfriends, a couple of Eli’s friends. We were playing one of those card games where everyone writes down a weird true story and the group has to guess who it belongs to.

I wrote mine:
“My ex-husband demanded the air fryer in our divorce settlement.”

Everyone pointed at me. Immediately.

“Yep. That sounds like a Claire story,” someone said.

We laughed. But this time, it didn’t sting. It felt like a scar that had healed. Like something far enough in the past to smile at.

Later that night, Eli came up behind me while I was putting dishes away. He wrapped his arms around my waist and whispered, “Just so you know, I’d give you the air fryer in a divorce.”

I turned to him and said, “That’s how I know this is real love.”

Fast forward to today.

I still think about how ridiculous that demand was. Not because of the air fryer itself—though yes, it’s hilariously petty—but because of what it represented. Sean thought he was taking something from me. But in reality, he gave me the best gift of all: a clean break.

He forced me to rebuild. To find out who I was without him.

And I like her.

She’s resilient. She dances in the kitchen. She says no without explaining. She laughs deeply, loves carefully, and will absolutely cut anyone who disrespects her boundaries.

Oh, and she makes a killer salmon.

The Lesson?

Sometimes, the things people think they’re taking from you are just freeing you up for something better.

Whether it’s an air fryer or your peace of mind—let it go. You deserve more than what someone like that could ever offer.

And hey, if someone ever leaves you over crispy wings and convenience appliances… just know it says more about them than it ever will about you.

If you enjoyed this story, hit like, share it with a friend who needs a laugh (or some healing), and drop a comment: What’s the pettiest thing someone ever took in a breakup?