When I finally agreed to go with my husband to his ex-wife’s house, I expected it to be weird—but not that weird. I definitely didn’t expect to see her standing in the doorway wearing a silky robe, hair done like she just stepped out of a salon, lips shining with gloss.
But the real shock? The look on her face when she saw me standing next to Henry.
She wasn’t expecting that. Not one bit.
Let me back up.
The day I met Henry, I stopped believing in coincidences. We both reached for the same worn-out copy of The Great Gatsby at a little used bookstore. Our hands touched, our eyes met, and bam—instant connection.
Fast forward five years, and we were married. I still got butterflies when he walked in after work.
Well… most days, anyway.
“Mel, have you seen my toolbox?” Henry called from the garage.
I was stirring the pasta sauce on the stove. It was Tuesday, 6:30 p.m., dinner almost done.
“Under the workbench, where it always is,” I shouted back.
Clang. Clang. Yep, he found it.
Then he appeared in the kitchen doorway, toolbox in one hand, car keys in the other.
I raised an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?” I already knew the answer.
“Liz called. Her garbage disposal’s making this weird noise. She’s worried it might be serious.”
I set the spoon down—hard. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he said with that soft, guilty smile. “I’ll heat mine up later. I won’t be long—an hour, tops.”
The front door closed before I could say another word.
I turned off the stove. Leaned against the counter. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore.
Here’s the thing—when I ask Henry to fix something in our house, it’s always “later.” But when Liz calls about a loose towel bar? He’s out the door like Superman on a rescue mission.
At first, I told myself to be chill. “They have history,” I said. “He’s just helping her.”
But then it became every week. First the leaky sink. Then the garage door remote. Then the sprinkler system.
Every time, he’d sigh and say, “She has no one else. I don’t want the house getting ruined.”
You’d think he was protecting a national treasure. But no, it was the three-bedroom colonial they bought before they split. The same house he refused to sell.
“It’s just business, Melanie,” he told me when we started dating. “We both invested. Neither of us wants to sell at a loss.”
I believed him then. But five years later, it didn’t sound so smart anymore. It sounded like an excuse.
The next morning, I brought him a hot cup of coffee. He groaned and opened one eye.
“What time did you get in?” I asked, sitting on the bed.
“Eleven, maybe?” He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Garbage disposal was fine. But then her sink started leaking. Had to replace the gasket.”
“Four hours to replace a gasket?” I stared at him.
“She made dinner,” he said casually. “It would’ve been rude to leave.”
“She made you dinner.”
“It wasn’t planned, Mel. She felt bad about the time.”
I walked to the window, sunlight spilling in. Our backyard was a mess. The flower beds were wild, and the deck looked like it hadn’t seen stain in years.
“You know,” I said, keeping my tone light, “our bathroom faucet’s been dripping for three weeks.”
“I’ll get to it this weekend, I promise.”
But Saturday came, and so did Liz’s call. A wobbly banister this time. And off he went. Again.
The worst was our anniversary. I made reservations. Bought a cheesecake from his favorite bakery. Wore the dress he loved.
And I waited.
When he walked in at 10:30 p.m., smelling like sawdust and frustration, I didn’t yell. I handed him a glass of wine.
Then I asked, calm as ever, “Just tell me the truth. Are you still in love with her?”
His face went pale. “What? No! Mel, how could you even think that?”
I started counting on my fingers. “She calls—you run. She needs something—you’re there. Our faucet’s still dripping. But her cabinet hinge gets a full repair team.”
He sat beside me, still catching up to the weight of my words.
“It’s not what you think,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “She’s helpless with this stuff. You—you know how to fix things.”
“So I’m being punished because I’m capable?”
“No! That’s not what I meant—”
“She’s manipulating you, Henry. And you’re letting her.”
“That’s not fair. She just needs help.”
“We all need help sometimes,” I said. “But we don’t call our exes to get it.”
As always, he promised to do better. Set boundaries. Be present.
And I, like a fool, nodded. Pretended I believed it.
A week later, right in the middle of a Zoom presentation at work, I got his text:
“Liz called. Kitchen flooding. Going over now. Might be late.”
I stared at the words until they blurred.
When I got home, he was packing his toolbox.
“Ready to play hero again?” I asked.
He didn’t even look up. “It’s not like that.”
“Fine,” I said, grabbing my purse. “Let’s go.”
His head jerked up. “What?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“You want to come to Liz’s?”
“If we’re protecting our property, I should be involved, right?” I smiled, but it felt like knives on my face.
He hesitated, then said, “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
The drive was silent except for the soft radio hum. I stared out the window at neighborhoods I didn’t want to be part of.
When we pulled up, I noticed everything. The fresh paint. Trimmed bushes. New curtains. It didn’t look like a place falling apart.
Liz opened the door in a silky robe, hair flawless, lips shining.
“Oh,” she said, eyes wide. “I didn’t know you were bringing company.”
I grinned. “Surprise.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d bring your plus one to fix plumbing.”
Henry walked past both of us, avoiding eye contact. “Where’s the flooding?”
“This way,” she said, leading us in.
The living room? Spotless. No chaos. No panic.
The kitchen? Just a tiny puddle under the sink. I’d bet money it had been poured there minutes before we arrived.
“It just started gushing,” Liz said, fake-worried. “I was scared.”
I leaned on the counter. “Good thing Henry’s always on call.”
Henry shot me a look, then got to work. “Loose connection,” he said. “Hand me the wrench?”
Before Liz could move, I grabbed it. “Here you go, honey.”
As he fixed it, I took a look around. No sign of another man. No shoes, razors, toothbrush.
She wasn’t calling Henry because she had no one. She was calling him because she wanted him there.
“Lemonade, anyone?” Liz asked. “It’s fresh.”
“No, thank you,” I said before Henry could speak. “We have dinner plans.”
He looked confused. We didn’t. But he stayed quiet.
“All done,” he said, wiping his hands. “Just needed tightening.”
Liz placed her hand on his arm. “My hero. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d call a plumber,” I said. “Like the rest of us.”
While Henry went to wash up, I pulled a folded paper from my purse and handed it to Liz.
She opened it and narrowed her eyes. “What’s this?”
“Resources,” I said sweetly.
On the list: three plumbers, a gardener, two electricians, and a screenshot of a dating app with “friendly matches nearby!” circled in red.
At the bottom, I’d written in bold: “If you keep calling my husband, I’ll assume you can’t read.”
Her face turned beet red.
“You think you’re so clever,” she hissed. “You have no idea what Henry and I shared.”
I smiled. “I do. You shared the past. We share the future.”
“He comes every time I call. What does that tell you?”
“That he’s kind and loyal,” I said. “And you’re using that.”
Then, as Henry walked in, I raised my voice. “You don’t need a man. You need maintenance.”
Henry looked between us, confused. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect,” I said, slipping my arm through his. “Ready to go home?”
The drive was quiet. Then Henry spoke. “That was… awkward.”
“Was it? I found it enlightening.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I reached into my purse and pulled out a business card. Divorce lawyer. Address written neatly on the back.
Henry stared at it when we stopped at a red light.
“Seriously? You’re giving me an ultimatum?”
“Not an ultimatum,” I said calmly. “A choice. Keep fixing her house—or live there.”
He didn’t move when the light turned green. A car honked.
Finally, he drove. “I didn’t realize how it looked,” he said. “She really… needed help.”
“So do I,” I said. “I need a husband who shows up. Who fixes our faucet. Who doesn’t miss our anniversary dinner.”
Silence. Then he reached over, picked up the lawyer’s card… and placed it in the glovebox.
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” he said. “I’m done being her handyman.”
“You’d do that?”
He took my hand and squeezed it. “I choose you, Mel. I always have.”
That was three months ago. We haven’t heard from Liz since.
I heard she found someone—one of the plumbers on my list. He replaced her water heater… and brought her roses.
As for me? My faucet’s no longer dripping.
And Henry? Well, let’s just say he finally knows who really holds the toolbox in this marriage.
