When I finally agreed to go with my husband to his ex-wife’s house, I never imagined I’d find her dressed in an expensive silk robe, hair perfectly styled, lips glossy as if she were about to step onto a magazine cover. But even that wasn’t as shocking as the expression on her face when she saw me standing beside him.
The day I met Jett was the day I stopped believing in coincidences. We collided—literally—at a bookstore, both reaching for the same battered copy of The Great Gatsby.
Five years into our marriage, my heart still lifts when he walks through our front door after work.
Most days, anyway.
“Lina, have you seen my toolbox?” Jett shouted from the garage.
I stirred the soup simmering on the stove and glanced at the clock. Tuesday evening, 6:30 p.m. Dinner was almost ready.
“Under the workbench. Same place as always,” I called.
A moment later, metal clanged. Then he appeared in the kitchen doorway, toolbox in one hand, keys dangling from the other.
“Heading out?” I asked, though I already knew.
“Vina called. Her garbage disposal’s acting up. She thinks it’s serious.”
I set the spoon down harder than I meant to. “Dinner’s almost done.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He gave me that apologetic smile. “I’ll eat when I get back. Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
The door closed before I could respond.
I turned off the stove and leaned against the counter, my appetite gone.
Funny how my husband can “get to it later” when I ask him to fix our leaky faucet or hang a picture—but when his ex-wife calls about a loose towel rack, he’s gone in minutes.
At first, I tried to be reasonable.
They share history, I told myself. He’s just being helpful.
But then came the third call. Then the fourth. Then the fifth.
Clogged drain. Broken garage opener. Sprinkler malfunction.
Every time, the same explanation. “She doesn’t have anyone else. I can’t let the house fall apart.”
As if he were talking about some historic landmark instead of the three-bedroom house they bought together before the divorce. The same house he insisted on co-owning “until the market improves.”
“It’s just business,” he’d told me early in our relationship. “We both invested in it.”
I believed him then.
Five years later, I wasn’t so sure.
The next morning, I placed a mug of coffee on his nightstand. Jett groaned and opened one eye.
“What time did you get home?” I asked, sitting on the bed.
“Around eleven,” he said, rubbing his face. “The disposal was fine, but then her sink started leaking. Had to replace the seal.”
“Four hours to replace a seal?”
He took a sip. “She made dinner. It felt rude to leave.”
I stared at him. “She cooked for you.”
“It wasn’t planned,” he said quickly. “She just felt bad.”
I walked to the window and pulled back the curtains.
Our backyard was a mess. Weeds everywhere. The deck peeling.
But Jett was always too busy.
“Our bathroom faucet has been dripping for weeks,” I said calmly.
“I’ll handle it this weekend.”
He didn’t. Because Saturday morning, Vina called again—this time about a loose stair rail.
The night he missed our anniversary dinner to fix her garage door, I sat alone on the couch with a glass of wine and an untouched pie from our favorite bakery.
“Just be honest,” I said when he finally came home. “Are you still in love with her?”
He looked stunned. “What? No. How could you think that?”
I counted on my fingers. “She calls, you rush over. She needs help, you drop everything. Our faucet leaks for weeks, but her shelf is an emergency.”
He sat beside me. “It’s not like that. She’s helpless with this stuff. You’re capable. You’re strong.”
“So I get ignored because I’m independent?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“She’s using you,” I said. “And you’re letting her.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Most people call professionals, Jett. Not their ex-husband.”
The conversation ended the same way it always did—with promises and my forced belief.
A week later, during a work meeting, my phone buzzed.
Vina called. Kitchen flooding. Heading over. Might be late.
When I got home, Jett was already grabbing his toolbox.
“Saving the day again?” I asked.
“It’s not like that.”
“Fine,” I said, picking up my purse. “I’m coming with you.”
He froze. “You want to come?”
“If we’re protecting your investment,” I smiled tightly, “I should be there too.”
The drive was quiet. The house was neat, freshly painted.
Vina opened the door in a silk robe, flawless. Her smile disappeared when she saw me.
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you were bringing company.”
“I’m his wife,” I replied pleasantly.
The kitchen was spotless. The “flood” was a small, suspicious puddle.
“It just started,” she said dramatically.
“Lucky timing,” I said.
Jett fixed the pipe in minutes.
When she touched his arm and called him her hero, I spoke.
“You’d call a plumber,” I said. “Like everyone else.”
Before leaving, I handed her a paper.
Plumbers. Electricians. A gardener. And a dating app.
At the bottom: If you keep calling my husband, I’ll assume you can’t read.
Her face flushed.
On the drive home, I gave Jett a lawyer’s card.
“Not an ultimatum,” I said. “A choice.”
He chose me.
And that was the last time we visited Vina’s house.
My faucet works now.
And my husband finally understands who really owns the toolbox in this marriage