By Andrew Hoxha 
When I married Henry, I knew he came with a little baggage—his past, his ex-wife, the house they still co-owned for “investment reasons.” I just never expected that her emergencies would always outrank mine.
For a while, I tried to be the cool wife. I nodded politely when he said Liz needed help with her garage door or a leaking sink. But after the fifth “crisis” in a month and our own bathroom faucet continued to drip like a slow accusation, I realized something had to give.
The final straw? Our anniversary. I sat alone with a flickering candle, a bottle of red, and our favorite cheesecake—untouched. Henry texted last minute: “Liz’s garage door is stuck. Be home late.”
When he finally stumbled through the door smelling like WD-40, I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just asked one question: “Are you still in love with her?”
He said no. Of course he did. And maybe that was true. Maybe he didn’t love Liz anymore. But he still belonged to her in a way that left me outside, looking in.
So the next time she called—this time claiming her kitchen was flooding—I told him I’d go too.
The look on his face? Half-surprise, half-panic. “You want to come to Liz’s?”
“If we’re preserving your joint assets,” I smiled, “shouldn’t I be involved?”
When we arrived, Liz opened the door in a silk robe, her hair blown out to perfection, lips glossed like she’d just stepped out of a beauty campaign. She froze when she saw me.
“Oh. I didn’t know you were bringing… company.”
“Surprise,” I said with the kind of smile that keeps secrets and makes statements all at once.
The house was spotless. The supposed “flood”? A small puddle under the sink that looked freshly staged. While Henry bent down to investigate, I leaned casually on the counter.
Liz offered lemonade. I declined. “We have dinner plans,” I lied.
She touched Henry’s arm and said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Before I could stop myself, I said, “Call a plumber. Like the rest of us.”
When she disappeared down the hall, I handed her a folded piece of paper—resources: three reputable plumbers, an electrician, a gardener, and a dating app circled in red. “If you keep calling my husband, I’ll assume you can’t read.”
Her smile faltered. “You have no idea what we had.”
“You’re right,” I replied. “Because he and I are focused on what we have now.”
Back in the car, Henry didn’t speak for a while. Then he reached over, took my hand, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not angry,” I said. “I’m just done sharing.”
He called Liz the next day and told her he couldn’t be her handyman anymore.
That was three months ago. The faucet? Fixed. Our weekends? Ours again. Liz, from what I hear, found herself a very capable man—one of the plumbers I recommended.
And me? I found my voice.
Because sometimes, it’s not about winning back your husband. It’s about reminding him who truly holds the wrench—and the power—in your marriage.