When I met Henry at a bookstore, we both reached for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. We laughed, argued lightly over who’d seen it first, then ended up getting coffee and talking for hours about doomed romances and second chances. Five years into our marriage, I still liked to believe I’d married a romantic. But somewhere between the shared paperbacks and shared dreams, something in our story quietly shifted.

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 in the kitchen, a steady reminder of neglect. Paint peeled in the hallway. A loose step creaked every time I climbed the stairs. He was always fixing her problems—never ours. I began to feel like the temporary place he passed through between real obligations.

Then came the night Liz called about a “kitchen flood.”

“I’m coming with you,” I said.

Henry paused—longer than he should have—then nodded. “Okay.”

When we arrived, Liz opened the door in a silk robe, lips painted a bold, deliberate red. Her smile was warm until her eyes landed on me. Then it flickered.

“Oh,” she blinked. “Didn’t know you were bringing company.”

“Surprise,” I said, returning her smile with one just as calm.

The kitchen was spotless—no soaked cabinets, no dripping ceiling. Just one carefully placed puddle beneath the sink, as if staged. Henry knelt automatically, reaching for his tools. Before Liz could move, I handed him the wrench myself.

Then I turned to her and held out a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?” she asked, suspicious.

“A list of professionals,” I said evenly. “Plumbers. Electricians. Handymen. And a dating app—just in case.”

She unfolded it. At the bottom, in neat handwriting, I had added:
If you keep calling my husband, I’ll assume you can’t read.

Her face flushed, anger rising fast. “You think this is about plumbing?” she snapped.

“No,” I replied quietly. “It’s about boundaries.”

The drive home was silent, the kind of silence that hums with unspoken truths. At a red light, I reached into my purse and handed Henry a business card.

“A divorce lawyer?” he whispered.

“Not a threat,” I said. “A choice.”

He stared at the card for a long time, then out the windshield. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “I’ll call her tomorrow. I’ll tell her I can’t be her handyman anymore. Not for sinks. Not for doors. Not for anything.”

And he did.

It’s been three months. The faucet in our kitchen no longer drips. The hallway is freshly painted. The loose step is solid under my feet. Liz hasn’t called again. Last I heard, she’s dating someone—one of the professionals on my list. Handy. Single. Apparently very reliable.

As for Henry, he still has his toolbox. But now, when it opens, it’s in our home. And for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like I’m competing with his past. I feel like I finally have his present.