When I met Henry at a bookstore, we both reached for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. Five years into our marriage, I still thought I’d found a romantic. But gradually, things started to shift.
It began innocently enough—his ex-wife Liz needed help with a broken sink. Then it was a leaky shower. A squeaky garage door. A crooked cabinet. Every week, it was something new. Every week, Henry was gone—toolbox in hand, dinner forgotten, anniversary plans postponed.
At first, I gave him grace. “She’s just helpless,” he’d say. “She has no one else.” Meanwhile, our own home repairs went untouched. A faucet dripped endlessly. Paint peeled. He was always fixing her problems—never ours.
Then came the night Liz called about a “kitchen flood.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said.
Henry paused—longer than he should’ve—then agreed.
When we got to Liz’s house, she greeted us in a silk robe, lips painted red. Her smile faltered when she saw me.
“Oh,” she blinked. “Didn’t know you were bringing company.”
“Surprise,” I smiled.
The kitchen was pristine—except for one carefully placed puddle beneath the sink. Henry knelt down. Before Liz could reach for a tool, I handed him the wrench myself.
Then I turned to her and held out a folded note.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“A list of professionals,” I said. “Plumbers. Electricians. And a dating app—just in case.”
At the bottom, I’d written:
If you keep calling my husband, I’ll assume you can’t read.
Her face flushed.
“You think this is about plumbing?” she snapped.
“No,” I said. “It’s about boundaries.”
On the way home, I handed Henry a divorce lawyer’s card.
“Not a threat,” I said. “A choice.”
He sat in silence for a long time before finally saying, “I’ll call her tomorrow. I’ll tell her I can’t be her handyman anymore.”
And he did.
It’s been three months. My faucet is fixed. Liz hasn’t called again. Last I heard, she’s dating someone—one of the professionals on my list. Handy. Single.
As for Henry? He still has his toolbox. But now, it only opens for me.