When I met Henry at a bookstore, we both reached for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. Five years into our marriage, I still thought I’d found a romantic. But gradually, things started to shift.

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. Paint peeled. He was always fixing her problems—never ours.

Then came the night Liz called about a “kitchen flood.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said.
Henry paused—longer than he should’ve—then agreed.

When we got to Liz’s house, she greeted us in a silk robe, lips painted red. Her smile faltered when she saw me.
“Oh,” she blinked. “Didn’t know you were bringing company.”
“Surprise,” I smiled.

The kitchen was pristine—except for one carefully placed puddle beneath the sink. Henry knelt down. Before Liz could reach for a tool, I handed him the wrench myself.Read More Below