When I finally agreed to go with my husband to his ex-wife’s house, I thought it would just be a quick fix-and-go kind of thing. What I didn’t expect was to see her standing there like she just stepped out of a movie—wearing a silk robe, flawless hair, and lips so shiny they could reflect sunlight. But even that wasn’t the most shocking part. No, the real shock was the look on her face when she saw me standing right next to Henry.
The day I met Henry, I stopped believing in coincidences. We had both reached for the same worn-out copy of The Great Gatsby at a bookstore. Our hands touched, we laughed, and boom—instant connection.
Five years of marriage later, and I still felt butterflies when he walked through the door after work.
Well… most days, anyway.
“Mel, have you seen my toolbox?” Henry’s voice echoed from the garage.
I was stirring pasta sauce, the smell filling the kitchen, and I glanced at the clock. 6:30 p.m. on a Tuesday. Dinner was almost ready.
“Under the workbench, where it always is,” I called back.
Then I heard the familiar clatter of tools. He found it.
Seconds later, Henry appeared in the kitchen doorway, toolbox in one hand and car keys in the other.
“Going somewhere?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Liz called. Her garbage disposal’s acting up. She’s worried it might be something serious.”
I slammed the wooden spoon down a little too hard. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” He gave me that apologetic look. “I’ll warm it up when I get back. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.”
The door shut behind him before I could say another word.
I turned off the stove. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore.
My husband never rushes when I ask him to hang a shelf or fix a leaky faucet. But the second his ex-wife calls about some crooked towel rack? He’s out the door like Superman.
At first, I tried to stay calm. Be the “cool” wife.
They share a past, I reminded myself. He’s just helping.
But then came the nonstop calls—week after week. A leaky sink. Broken garage remote. Sprinkler acting up.
Each time, Henry would sigh like a martyr and say, “She has no one else, and I don’t want the house getting ruined.”
You’d think he was talking about the White House instead of that colonial-style home they bought together before the divorce. The same house he still co-owned with her, “until the market improves.”
“It’s just business, Melanie,” he’d told me when we first started dating. “We both put money into the property, and neither of us wants to sell at a loss.”
Back then, I believed him. But five years later? I was starting to wonder if it was really just business.
The next morning, I brought him a steaming mug of coffee. Set it gently on the nightstand.
Henry groaned, half-asleep. One eye opened.
“What time did you get in last night?” I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Around eleven, I think.” He sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “The garbage disposal was fine, but then her kitchen sink started leaking. Had to replace the gasket.”
“Four hours to replace a gasket?”
“She made dinner. Would’ve been rude not to stay.”
I just stared. “She made you dinner.”
“It wasn’t planned, Mel. She felt bad about the time.”
I walked over to the window, pulled open the curtains. Morning light spilled in. Our backyard was a mess—overgrown flower beds, peeling paint on the deck. A home that clearly needed attention.
But Henry? He was always too busy.
“You know,” I said casually, “our bathroom faucet’s been dripping for three weeks.”
Henry sighed. “I’ll get to it this weekend, I promise.”
He didn’t. Because Saturday morning, guess who called? Liz. This time about a wobbly banister.
Then came the final straw.
It was our anniversary. I had made reservations at the cozy little Italian restaurant we both loved. I bought a cheesecake from our favorite bakery.
But Henry never showed. Instead, he sent a text: “Liz’s garage door won’t open. Heading there now.”
So I sat alone on our couch, a glass of wine in one hand, and the cheesecake untouched on the table.
When he finally came in at 10:30 p.m., smelling faintly of sawdust, I didn’t even raise my voice. I just asked:
“Just tell me the truth. Are you still in love with her?”
He looked shocked. Like I had slapped him.
“What? No! God, Mel, how could you think that?”
“Let me see,” I began, counting on my fingers. “She calls, you run. She needs help, you drop everything. Our faucet’s been dripping forever, but her loose cabinet hinge? You treat that like it’s a national emergency.”
He sank onto the couch beside me.
“It’s not like that,” he said, rubbing his face. “She’s just… helpless with house stuff. You know how to do things. You’re capable.”
“So I’m being punished for knowing how to work a screwdriver?”
“No, that’s not what I—”
“She’s manipulating you, Henry. And you’re letting her.”
His jaw clenched. “That’s not fair. She just needs help sometimes.”
“We all need help, Henry. But the rest of us call a professional. Not our ex-spouse.”
Like always, the conversation ended with him promising to set boundaries. And like always, I pretended to believe him.
A week later, right in the middle of a work presentation, my phone buzzed.
Liz called. Flooding in kitchen. Going over now. Might be late.
I just stared at the screen. My chest was tight.
When I got home, Henry was packing his toolbox.
“Ready to go play hero?” I said, setting my bag down.
He didn’t even look up. “It’s not like that.”
“Fine,” I grabbed my purse. “Let’s go.”
He froze. “What?”
“I’m coming with you. Let’s protect your investment—together.”
He looked like he wanted to say no. But then he nodded. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
The 15-minute drive was quiet, aside from soft radio music. I watched the neighborhoods pass by, wondering how many times he’d made this drive without me.
We pulled up. The house looked freshly painted, the lawn perfect. No signs of chaos.
Liz opened the door in a silky robe. Hair styled. Lip gloss shining.
She blinked. “Oh… I didn’t know you were bringing company.”
I gave her a smile that could slice glass. “Surprise.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d bring your plus one to fix plumbing.”
Henry stepped past both of us, avoiding eye contact. “Where’s the flooding?”
“Right this way,” Liz said, her voice all soft and helpless.
I followed. The living room was spotless. No signs of panic.
The kitchen? Also clean. Just a small puddle under the sink. Probably poured there five minutes ago for dramatic effect.
“It just started gushing,” Liz said with wide eyes. “I was so scared.”
“I’m sure you were,” I muttered, leaning on the counter. “Good thing Henry’s always on call.”
Henry glanced at me nervously, then crouched down to inspect the pipes.
“Just a loose connection,” he said. “Hand me the wrench from my toolbox?”
Before Liz could flutter her lashes, I grabbed it and handed it to him. “Here you go, honey.”
While he worked, I scanned the place. No signs of a man. No toothbrush, no razors, no shoes.
She wasn’t calling Henry because her new boyfriend was useless. She didn’t have one. She was calling Henry because she wanted him there.
“Want something to drink?” Liz asked sweetly. “I made fresh lemonade.”
“No, thank you,” I said quickly. “We have dinner plans.”
Henry looked confused. We didn’t. But he kept his mouth shut.
“All done,” he said after a few minutes, wiping his hands. “Just a loose connection.”
“My hero,” Liz cooed, touching his arm. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d call a plumber,” I snapped. “Like the rest of us.”
While Henry washed up, I reached into my purse and handed Liz a folded paper.
She frowned, opened it. “What’s this?”
“Resources,” I said. “Three plumbers. A gardener. Two electricians. And a dating app.”
At the bottom, I had written in bold letters: If you keep calling my husband, I’ll assume you can’t read.
Her face turned red.
“You think you’re clever,” she hissed. “You don’t know what Henry and I had.”
I smiled. “Oh, I know. You had the past. I have the present—and the future.”
“He comes running when I call. What does that tell you?”
“That he’s kind and loyal,” I said. “And you’re using that like a weapon.”
When Henry returned, I raised my voice to normal. “You don’t need a man, Liz. You need a maintenance plan.”
He looked between us. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect,” I said, taking his arm. “Ready to go home?”
In the car, silence.
Then he said, “That was… awkward.”
“Was it? I thought it was enlightening.”
He blinked. “What does that mean?”
I pulled out another piece of paper. A business card—for a divorce lawyer. I’d even written the address on the back.
He stared at it when we stopped at a red light.
“Seriously? You’re giving me an ultimatum?”
“Not an ultimatum. A choice. If you want to keep fixing her house, you can go live in it.”
The light turned green. He didn’t move right away. Someone honked behind us.
“I didn’t realize how it looked,” he finally said. “She really does need help—”
“So do I,” I cut in. “I need a husband who’s present. Who fixes our faucet. Who shows up for anniversary dinners.”
He sat quietly for a long time. Then he picked up the lawyer’s card, looked at it, and tucked it into the glovebox.
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” he said. “Tell her I can’t be her handyman anymore.”
“You’d do that?”
He reached over and squeezed my hand. “I choose you, Mel. I always have.”
That was three months ago.
We haven’t been back to Liz’s house since.
I heard she found someone. A very handy man from one of the contacts I gave her. Apparently, he fixed her water heater and brought her flowers.
As for me?
My faucet? It finally stopped dripping.
And Henry?
He finally realized who really holds the toolbox in this marriage.
