“I Choose You, Not Her”
When I finally agreed to go with my husband to his ex-wife’s house, I had no idea what I was walking into.
I thought I’d see a mess—maybe a broken sink, tools everywhere. But what I saw instead? His ex-wife standing in the doorway wearing a silk robe, her hair styled perfectly, lips glossy like she just stepped out of a magazine. And the way she looked at me when she saw me standing beside Henry? Like I was a ghost. A very unwanted ghost.
But let me back up.
The day I met Henry, it felt like fate. We both reached for the same worn-out copy of The Great Gatsby in a little bookstore. Our hands touched, we laughed, and just like that, my belief in coincidences disappeared.
Five years of marriage later, and I still got butterflies when he walked through the door after work.
Well… most days.
“Mel, have you seen my toolbox?” Henry called from the garage.
I was in the kitchen, stirring pasta sauce. The smell of garlic filled the air. I looked at the clock—6:30 p.m., a normal Tuesday. Dinner was almost ready.
“Under the workbench, where it always is,” I answered, a little louder than usual.
I heard the clang of metal and knew he found it.
Then he walked in, toolbox in one hand, car keys in the other.
I raised an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”
He gave me a guilty smile. “Liz called. Her garbage disposal’s making a weird noise. She’s afraid it might be something serious.”
I put the spoon down harder than I needed to. Clack.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” I said sharply.
“I know, I’m sorry.” He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll warm it up when I get back. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.”
Before I could respond, he was out the door.
I turned off the burner and leaned against the counter. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore.
Why was it that when I asked him to fix something—like the leaky faucet in our bathroom—he’d shrug and say he’d do it “later”? But when she called about a broken towel bar? He was gone in five minutes like a superhero on a mission.
At first, I told myself to be cool. “They share a past,” I whispered. “He’s just helping.”
But then came request after request. A leaky sink. A broken garage remote. A messed-up sprinkler.
Each time, he’d sigh and say, “She has no one else. I don’t want the house getting ruined.”
He acted like the place was a national treasure. Just a three-bedroom colonial they bought before their divorce. And of course, he still co-owned it.
“It’s just business, Melanie,” he told me when we were dating. “Neither of us wants to sell at a loss.”
Back then, I believed him. But now, five years later? I wasn’t so sure.
The next morning, I brought Henry coffee in bed.
He groaned, rubbing his eyes. “What time did you get in last night?” I asked.
“Around eleven,” he said. “The garbage disposal was fine, but then her kitchen sink started leaking. Had to replace the gasket.”
“Four hours to replace a gasket?”
He took a sip. “She made dinner. Would’ve been rude not to stay.”
I blinked. “She made you dinner.”
“It wasn’t planned. She felt bad about the time.”
I stood, walked to the window, and pulled open the curtains. The sunlight hit our backyard. It was a mess. Weeds everywhere. Our deck needed staining. But Henry? He didn’t have time. He was busy… being her handyman.
“You know,” I said casually, “our bathroom faucet has been dripping for three weeks.”
Henry sighed. “I’ll get to it this weekend. Promise.”
He didn’t. Because that Saturday, Liz called again. Wobbly banister. Emergency.
Then came our anniversary. Our fifth anniversary.
I had dinner ready, candles lit, and a cheesecake from our favorite bakery waiting on the table.
He never showed.
At 10:30 p.m., the door opened. He smelled like sawdust.
“Just tell me the truth,” I said. “Are you still in love with her?”
“What? No! God, Mel, how could you think that?” He looked hurt.
I stood up. “Let me see—she calls, you run. Her house needs something, you’re there. Our own home? You act like you’ve never seen a toolbox.”
“She’s just helpless,” he said. “You can do things. You’re capable.”
I stared at him. “So I’m being punished because I’m not helpless?”
“No, that’s not what I—”
“She’s manipulating you, Henry. And you’re letting her.”
He clenched his jaw. “That’s not fair. She needs help sometimes.”
“We all need help. Most of us call a professional. Not our ex-spouse.”
It ended like all our arguments: him promising to “set boundaries,” and me pretending I believed him.
A week later, I was giving a big work presentation when my phone buzzed.
Henry: Liz called. Flooding in kitchen. Going over now. Might be late.
I stared at the screen, my blood boiling.
That evening, he was packing up his toolbox again.
“Ready to go play hero?” I asked, tossing my bag on the counter.
He didn’t meet my eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s go.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“You want to come with me to Liz’s house?”
“If we’re protecting our investment, I should be involved, right?”
He hesitated. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
The 15-minute drive was quiet. Just the soft hum of the radio. My thoughts screamed louder than the music. How many times had he made this drive? How many dinners had she “accidentally” made?
When we pulled into her driveway, the house looked like it belonged in a home magazine. Fresh paint. Neatly trimmed bushes. Not a disaster zone.
Liz opened the door. Her silk robe shimmered. Her lips were glossy. Her smile faded fast when she saw me.
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you were bringing company.”
“Surprise,” I said sweetly.
She turned to Henry. “Didn’t think you’d bring your plus one to fix plumbing.”
Henry just walked past. “Where’s the flooding?”
“Right this way,” she said, suddenly less confident.
I followed them through her sparkling-clean living room. No water damage. No chaos.
The “flood” was a tiny puddle under the sink.
“It just started gushing,” Liz said, eyes wide. “I was so scared.”
“Good thing Henry’s always on call,” I said, leaning against the counter.
Henry glanced at me, then got on his knees. “It’s just a loose connection. Hand me the wrench?”
Before Liz could flounce over, I grabbed the toolbox. “Here you go, honey.”
While he worked, I scanned the place. No men’s shoes. No razors. No extra toothbrush. Liz was alone. But she wasn’t calling Henry because she needed help. She was calling because she wanted him.
“Anyone want a drink?” Liz asked. “I made fresh lemonade.”
“No thanks,” I said before Henry could answer. “We have dinner plans.”
He looked up, confused. We didn’t. But he stayed quiet.
“All done,” he said a few minutes later. “Just a loose connection.”
“My hero,” Liz said, placing a hand on his arm.
“You’d call a plumber,” I said sharply. “Like the rest of us do.”
As Henry washed his hands, I pulled a folded paper from my purse and handed it to Liz.
She frowned. “What’s this?”
“A gift,” I said. “Three plumbers, a gardener, two electricians, and a dating app. I even circled ‘friendly matches nearby.’”
At the bottom, I wrote:
If you keep calling my husband, I’ll assume you can’t read.
Her face turned bright red.
“You think you’re so clever,” she hissed. “You have no idea what Henry and I shared.”
I smiled. “Oh, I do. The past. What we share now? That’s the present—and the future.”
“He comes running when I call,” she whispered. “What does that tell you?”
“That he’s kind. And you’re using that.”
Then, louder: “You don’t need a man. You need a maintenance plan.”
Henry came back in. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect,” I said, linking my arm with his. “Ready to go home?”
On the drive back, the silence was thick.
“That was… awkward,” Henry said finally.
“Was it? I thought it was eye-opening.”
“What does that mean?”
I pulled out another piece of paper. A business card. Divorce lawyer.
His hands tightened on the wheel. “Seriously? You’re giving me an ultimatum?”
“Not an ultimatum. A choice.” I placed the card on the dashboard. “You want to keep fixing her house? You can go live in it.”
He didn’t move at the green light. A car honked behind us.
“I didn’t realize how it looked,” he said quietly. “She really does need help—”
“So do I,” I interrupted. “I need a husband who shows up. Who keeps promises. Who fixes our home.”
He nodded slowly. Then picked up the card, studied it, and placed it in the glovebox.
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” he said. “Tell her I can’t be her handyman anymore.”
“You’d really do that?”
He reached over and took my hand. “I choose you, Mel. I always have.”
That was three months ago. He hasn’t been back to Liz’s house since.
I heard she found someone. One of the plumbers I recommended. He installed her water heater. Brought her flowers.
As for me? My faucet finally got fixed.
And Henry?
Let’s just say he finally figured out who really holds the toolbox in this marriage.
