When I met Henry at a bookstore, we both reached for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. Five years of marriage later, I still felt lucky—at least, I used to.Things changed slowly. It started with one favor for his ex-wife, Liz—a broken sink. Then came the leaky shower, the squeaky garage door, a crooked cabinet. Each time she called, Henry grabbed his toolbox and left, often before dinner hit the table.Meanwhile, our own home repairs piled up.
The faucet in our bathroom dripped for weeks. Our anniversary dinner? Missed—because Liz’s garage sensor “needed realigning.” I gave him the benefit of the doubt. “She’s just helpless,” he’d say. “She has no one else.”
But eventually, I stopped believing it was just about the plumbing.So when Liz called about “kitchen flooding,” I simply said, “I’m coming with you.
”Henry hesitated, but agreed. We arrived at her immaculate house, and she opened the door wearing a silk robe and glossy lipstick. Her expression froze when she saw me beside him.“Oh,” she said. “Didn’t know you were bringing company.
