For weeks, I watched my husband Henry drop everything whenever his ex, Liz, called—broken sink, squeaky door, even tiny issues—while our own faucet dripped for a month. Each time I asked him to fix it, he promised, “This weekend,” but the weekend never came.
One night, when Liz called about a “flooded kitchen,” I decided to go with him. When we arrived, Liz greeted us in a silk robe, perfectly styled, her voice dripping with charm. I stayed calm, handed her a folded paper listing plumbers, electricians, gardeners—and at the bottom, a dating app suggestion circled in red.
“If you keep calling my husband,” I said sweetly, “I’ll assume you can’t read.” She flushed crimson, speechless. On the drive home, Henry admitted, “You’re right—she’s taking advantage of me,” and promised to set boundaries.
Three months later, Liz had a new man—ironically, one of the plumbers from my list—and Henry finally fixed our faucet, showed up for our anniversary, and learned where his loyalty truly belonged. Now, the toolbox comes out only for our home—and for me.