When I met Henry at a bookstore, we both reached for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. Five years of marriage later, I still felt lucky—at least, I used to.Things changed slowly. It started with one favor for his ex-wife, Liz—a broken sink. Then came the leaky shower, the squeaky garage door, a crooked cabinet. Each time she called, Henry grabbed his toolbox and left, often before dinner hit the table.Meanwhile, our own home repairs piled up.
The faucet in our bathroom dripped for weeks. Our anniversary dinner? Missed—because Liz’s garage sensor “needed realigning.” I gave him the benefit of the doubt. “She’s just helpless,” he’d say. “She has no one else.”
But eventually, I stopped believing it was just about the plumbing.So when Liz called about “kitchen flooding,” I simply said, “I’m coming with you.
”Henry hesitated, but agreed. We arrived at her immaculate house, and she opened the door wearing a silk robe and glossy lipstick. Her expression froze when she saw me beside him.“Oh,” she said. “Didn’t know you were bringing company.“Surprise,” I smiled.The kitchen was spotless—except for a single suspicious puddle under the sink. Henry got to work. I handed him the wrench before Liz could move.
Then I turned to her and passed her a folded paper.“What’s this?” she asked.“A list of professionals,” I replied. “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 went red. “You think this is about pipes?”“No,” I said calmly. “It’s about boundaries.”On the drive home, I gave Henry a divorce lawyer’s card. “Not a threat,” I told him. “A choice.”He was quiet for a while, then said, “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’s fixed, and Liz hasn’t called again. I hear she’s dating someone—a guy from the list I gave her. Handy and single.As for Henry? He still has his toolbox. But now, it only opens for me.
