Henry and I met reaching for The Great Gatsby. Five years later, I watched him dash to his ex-wife’s every “emergency”—while our own home crumbled. When Liz’s kitchen “flooded,” I went with him. Her lipstick said it all. I handed him the wrench—before she could.
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.
