When I finally agreed to go with Henry to his ex-wife’s house, I expected a messy kitchen or a broken pipe. Instead, Liz opened the door in a silk robe, hair perfect, lips glossy—and the shock on her face when she saw me beside him said everything.

For months, Henry had dropped everything whenever Liz called—leaky sink, wobbly banister, garage door opener—while our own faucet kept dripping. I’d tried to be patient, but after he missed our anniversary dinner “fixing her kitchen,” my patience cracked. When he left again for “flooding,” I told him I was coming too.

Inside Liz’s spotless house, the so-called emergency turned out to be a small puddle under the sink. As Henry worked, I handed Liz a neatly folded list I’d prepared: plumbers, electricians, gardeners—and a dating app. “If you keep calling my husband,” I told her calmly, “I’ll assume you can’t read.”

On the ride home, I slid a divorce lawyer’s card onto the dashboard. “Not an ultimatum,” I said. “A choice.” Henry sat in silence, then tucked the card away. “I’ll call her tomorrow,” he promised. And he did. Three months later, Liz had found someone new, our faucet was finally fixed, and my husband learned whose toolbox really mattered.