When I finally tagged along to my husband’s ex’s house, I didn’t expect to find her lounging in a silk robe, hair flawless, lips glossy. But the real shock was the look on her face when she spotted me standing there beside him.
I met Henry on a day that shattered my belief in coincidences—we both reached for the same dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby at a bookstore.
Five years into marriage, I still get butterflies when he walks through the door… well, most days.
One evening, as I stirred dinner, Henry shouted from the garage, “Mel, have you seen my toolbox?”
“Under the workbench, as usual,” I replied, barely glancing up.
He appeared with his toolbox and keys. “Liz called—her garbage disposal’s acting up. I’m heading over.”
Dinner simmered on the stove, but he was out the door before I could say more.
Helping his ex wasn’t new, but it was starting to wear on me. Our dripping bathroom faucet? Ignored for weeks. Yet every call from Liz meant Henry dropping everything—broken towel bars, leaky sinks, faulty garage remotes.
“It’s just business,” he said early on, “we co-own the house until the market improves.”
But after the fifth time, doubts crept in.
One morning, after he returned at 11 p.m. claiming Liz made dinner as thanks, my stomach sank.
“You’re punishing me for being self-sufficient,” I joked bitterly.
“No, she just needs help, Mel. You’re capable. I’m helping her because she’s helpless.”
I wasn’t convinced.
Then came the night Henry missed our anniversary to fix her garage door. Alone on the couch with wine and untouched cheesecake, I asked, “Are you still in love with her?”
“Absolutely not!” he insisted. But his actions said otherwise.
A week later, mid-presentation, my phone buzzed: “Liz called. Flooding in kitchen. Going over now.”
I went with him—time to see the truth.
Liz greeted us in her perfect silk robe, frozen when she saw me. Her immaculate home betrayed no signs of crisis—just a tiny, suspicious puddle under the sink.
Henry got to work while I surveyed the scene. No men’s shoes, no extras—she wanted Henry, not a plumber.
She offered lemonade. I declined, mentioning dinner plans we didn’t have.
As Henry finished, I handed Liz a list of plumbers, electricians, and even a dating app screenshot labeled “friendly matches nearby!” with a warning: “If you keep calling my husband, I’ll assume you can’t read.”
Liz’s face turned red, venom dripping as she hissed about Henry and her shared past.
I smiled, “I know the past. But what we share is the present and future.”
Henry watched, unsure.
“You don’t need a man. You need maintenance,” I said loud enough for all to hear.
On the drive home, I handed Henry a divorce lawyer’s card. “Keep fixing her house, you can live in it.”
He looked at me, then tucked it away. “I’ll call her tomorrow. No more handyman for Liz.”
Three months later, no more calls. Liz found a capable new guy. Our faucet is fixed. And Henry? He finally knows who holds the toolbox in this marriage.
