For weeks, I had observed my husband, Henry, dash out the door whenever his ex-wife, Liz, beckoned. A malfunctioning garage door, a dripping sink, or even a creaky staircase—regardless of the issue’s size, he abandoned everything to assist her. Meanwhile, the faucet in our own bathroom had been leaking for weeks. Whenever I brought it up, he’d say, “I’ll handle it this weekend, I promise.” Yet, the weekend never arrived, as Liz always seemed to have another urgent situation.
Initially, I tried to dismiss my unease. Henry maintained that it was merely a matter of shared responsibilities, given they still co-owned their old house. But in my heart, I began to suspect Liz was orchestrating these calls, and Henry was allowing it. One evening, when Liz phoned about a “flooded kitchen,” Henry grabbed his tools and headed for the exit. This time, I rose and declared, “I’m joining you.” He paused, visibly startled, but didn’t object. The car ride was quiet, with his unease palpable.
Upon arriving, Liz greeted us at the door, draped in a silk robe, her hair impeccably styled, lips gleaming with fresh gloss. Her expression faltered the moment she noticed me beside Henry. “Oh… I wasn’t expecting guests,” she said, her tone strained. I offered a warm smile. “Thought I’d tag along.” Inside, the supposed “flood” was merely a small puddle beneath the sink, looking oddly fresh, as if recently staged. Henry knelt to adjust a loose pipe, while Liz lingered too close, resting a hand on his arm. “You’re a lifesaver,” she murmured.
That was my cue. I reached into my purse, pulled out a neatly folded paper, and handed it to her. It listed trusted plumbers, electricians, and landscapers, with a dating app recommendation boldly circled at the bottom. “If you keep summoning my husband,” I said evenly, “I’ll assume you’re struggling with literacy.” Her cheeks flushed a deep red, her jaw clenched, but she was speechless for once. On the ride home, Henry remained silent until he finally confessed, “I didn’t see it clearly. You’re right—she’s been using me. I’ll tell her the calls need to stop.” And he followed through.
Three months later, Liz had moved on, coincidentally with one of the plumbers from my list. As for Henry, he repaired our faucet, made it to our anniversary dinner, and clarified where his priorities lay. Now, when he reaches for his toolbox, it’s solely for our home—and for me.
