When we arrived, Liz opened the door in a silk robe, her hair perfectly styled, lips shining with fresh gloss. She froze the second she saw me standing next to Henry. “Oh… I didn’t know you were bringing company,” she said, her voice tight.
I smiled sweetly. “Surprise.” Inside, the so-called “flood” turned out to be nothing more than a small puddle under the sink water that looked suspiciously fresh, as though it had just been poured. Henry crouched to tighten a loose pipe connection, while Liz hovered too close and placed a hand on his arm.
“My hero,” she whispered. That was my moment. I pulled a folded paper from my purse and handed it to her.
On it was a list of reliable plumbers, electricians, and gardeners and, at the bottom, a dating app suggestion circled in red. “If you keep calling my husband,”
I told her calmly, “I’ll assume you can’t read.” Her face flushed crimson, her jaw tightening, but for once she had no words. On the drive home, Henry was quiet until he finally admitted, “I didn’t realize how it looked.
You’re right she’s taking advantage of me. I’ll tell her she needs to stop calling.” And he did. Three months later, Liz had found herself a new man ironically, one of the plumbers from my list.
As for Henry, he finally fixed our faucet, showed up for our anniversary dinner, and learned exactly where his loyalty belonged. Now, when the toolbox comes out, it’s only for our home and for me.
