The phone rang again, and just like always, my husband dropped what he was doing to rush out the door. This time, I decided to follow. When we arrived, his ex-wife greeted us in a silk robe, her smile faltering the moment she realized he wasn’t alone. Henry walked straight to her kitchen with his toolbox, while I stood in the doorway, watching. In that instant, I knew I needed to step in—not because of jealousy, but because I could finally see how much of our life together had been quietly put on hold.
Henry and I built our marriage on simple joys—bookstore dates, late-night talks, and the little things that made our five years together special. But lately, those moments were being interrupted by constant calls from Liz. Broken pipes, loose shelves, or even small chores suddenly became emergencies that only Henry could fix. Meanwhile, the leaky faucet in our own home dripped endlessly, a reminder that his attention was being spent elsewhere. I realized something had to change.
That night, as Henry bent under her sink, I calmly handed Liz a note. It wasn’t a confrontation—it was a list of trusted professionals who could handle her “emergencies.” My voice stayed even as I told her, “Henry is generous, but he’s also my husband. He needs to be here for his family.” Her raised eyebrow said enough, but I knew I had drawn a line. It wasn’t about plumbing or repairs—it was about respect.
On the ride home, Henry was quiet, then admitted he had never stopped to see how lopsided things had become. I placed a lawyer’s card on the dashboard, not as a threat, but as proof of how deeply this mattered to me. That night marked a turning point. Months later, Liz has found other people to call, our faucet is finally fixed, and Henry has shifted his focus back where it belongs. The repairs weren’t just in our house—they were in our marriage, too.