When I finally decided to go with my husband to his ex-wife’s house, I never expected to see her in a fancy silk robe with perfect hair and shiny lips. But that was nothing compared to the look on her face when she saw me standing next to him.
The day I met Jett was the day I stopped believing in random luck. We ran into each other at a bookstore, both grabbing for the same worn-out copy of “The Great Gatsby.”
Five years of marriage later, I still get excited when he walks through our front door after work.
Well, most days, at least.
“Lina, have you seen my toolbox?” Jett called from the garage.
I stirred the soup bubbling on the stove and glanced at my watch. 6:30 p.m. on a Tuesday. Dinner was almost done.
“Under the workbench, like always,” I called back.
The clank of tools told me he’d found it.
A moment later, he stood in the kitchen doorway, toolbox in hand and car keys swinging from his fingers.
“Going somewhere?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Vina called. Her garbage disposal is acting up, and she’s worried it’s a big problem.”
I put down my wooden spoon a bit too hard. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” He gave me a sorry smile. “I’ll warm mine up when I get back. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.”
The front door shut before I could say anything.
I turned off the stove and leaned against the counter, suddenly not hungry anymore.
My husband doesn’t rush when I ask him to hang a picture or fix the leaky faucet in our bathroom. But when his ex-wife called about a broken towel rack? He was out the door in five minutes.
At first, I tried to stay calm.
They have a history, I told myself. He’s just helping out.
But then came the third, fourth, and fifth call in just a few weeks. Clogged drain. Broken garage opener. Sprinkler acting weird.
Each time, he’d sigh and say, “She’s got no one else, and I don’t want the house falling apart.”
You’d think he was talking about a historic mansion instead of the three-bedroom house they’d bought together before their divorce. The house he insisted on still owning with her “until the market gets better.”
“It’s just business, Lina,” he’d told me when we started dating. “We both put money into the house, and neither of us wants to lose it.”
I believed him back then. But now, five years later, I was starting to question it.
The next morning, I set a hot cup of coffee on the nightstand by our bed. Jett groaned and opened one eye.
“What time did you get home last night?” I asked, sitting on the bed’s edge.
“Around eleven, I think.” He sat up and rubbed his face. “The garbage disposal was okay, but then her kitchen sink started leaking. Had to swap out the seal.”
“Four hours to change a seal?”
He sipped his coffee. “She made dinner. It felt rude to leave.”
I stared at him. “She made you dinner.”
“It wasn’t planned, Lina. She just felt bad about the time.”
I stood up and walked to the window, pulling back the curtains to let in the morning light.
Our backyard needed work. The flower beds were full of weeds, and the deck badly needed a new coat of paint.
But Jett? He was too busy.
“You know,” I said, keeping my voice calm, “our bathroom faucet’s been dripping for three weeks.”
Jett sighed. “I’ll fix it this weekend, I promise.”
But he didn’t. Because Saturday morning, Vina called about a loose stair rail.
One night, after he missed our anniversary dinner to fix Vina’s garage door, I sat alone on our couch with a glass of wine and an untouched pie from our favorite bakery.
“Just tell me the truth,” I said when he walked in at 10:30 p.m. “Are you still in love with her?”
Jett looked shocked. “What? No! Lina, how could you think that?”
“Let’s see,” I counted on my fingers. “She calls, you go running. She needs help, you drop everything. Our faucet’s been dripping for weeks, but her loose shelf is a crisis.”
He sat next to me on the couch, smelling faintly of wood dust.
“It’s not like that,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “She’s just clueless about fixing things. You know how to handle stuff. You’re strong.”
“So, I’m punished for being independent?”
“No, that’s not what I—”
“She’s using you, Jett. And you’re letting her.”
His face tightened. “That’s not fair. She just needs help sometimes.”
“Everyone needs help sometimes. But most people call a pro, not their ex.”
The talk ended like always, with Jett promising to set better limits and me pretending to believe him.
A week later, I was in the middle of a work meeting when my phone buzzed with Jett’s text:
“Vina called. Kitchen flooding. Heading over now. Might be late.”
I stared at the words until they blurred.
When I got home, Jett was grabbing his toolbox.
“Off to save the day?” I asked, setting my laptop bag on the counter.
He didn’t look up. “It’s not like that.”
“Fine,” I said, picking up my purse. “Let’s go.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“Let’s go. I’ll come with you.”
“You want to come to Vina’s house?”
“If we’re protecting your investment,” I said with a tight smile, “I should be there, right?”
He paused, then nodded slowly. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
The 15-minute drive to Vina’s house was quiet except for the radio playing softly. I watched familiar streets pass by, wondering how many times Jett had made this trip without me.
We pulled up to a neat house with fresh paint and tidy bushes.
Vina opened the door in a silky robe, her hair perfect, lips glossy. She froze when she saw me next to Jett.
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you were bringing a guest.”
I smiled nicely. “Surprise.”
She glanced at Jett. “I didn’t think you’d bring your wife to fix pipes.”
Jett walked past us both, heading to the kitchen.
“Where’s the flooding?” he asked, avoiding our eyes.
“This way,” Vina said.
I followed them through a clean living room. There were no signs of a woman panicking over house problems.
The kitchen was just as spotless. The only “flood” was a small puddle under the sink that looked way too fresh. I’d bet my wedding ring it wasn’t there ten minutes ago.
“It just started pouring,” Vina said. “I was so scared.”
“I bet you were,” I said softly, leaning against the counter. “Good thing Jett’s always ready to help.”
Jett glanced at me with a warning look, then checked the pipes. “It’s just a loose pipe,” he said after a bit. “Pass me the wrench from my toolbox, please.”
Before Vina could move, I grabbed the toolbox and handed it over. “Here you go, honey.”
While he worked, I looked around. No signs of a man living here. No razors in the bathroom, no extra toothbrush, no men’s shoes by the door.
So, Vina wasn’t calling Jett because she had a new guy who couldn’t fix things. She was calling him because she wanted him here.
“Want something to drink?” Vina asked. “I made fresh juice.”
“No, thanks,” I said before Jett could answer. “We have dinner plans.”
Jett looked up, confused. We had no dinner plans, but he stayed quiet.
“All fixed,” he said after a few minutes, closing the cabinet under the sink. “Just a loose pipe. Should be fine now.”
“My hero,” Vina said, touching his arm. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d call a plumber,” I said. “Like most people do.”
While Jett washed his hands in the bathroom, I pulled a folded paper from my purse and handed it to Vina.
Her eyes narrowed as she opened it. “What’s this?”
“Helpful contacts,” I said simply.
It listed three good plumbers, a gardener, two electricians, and a screenshot of a popular dating app (circled with “meet new people nearby!” written on it).
And at the bottom, I’d written, “If you keep calling my husband, I’ll assume you don’t know how to read.”
Her face turned red.
“You think you’re so smart,” she whispered. “You don’t know what Jett and I had.”
“I know exactly what you had,” I smiled. “The past. What we have is now and the future.”
“He comes running every time I call,” she hissed. “What does that tell you?”
“That he’s kind and loyal,” I said. “And you’re taking advantage of that.”
When I heard the bathroom door open, I said loudly, “You don’t need a man. You need a repair guy.”
Jett came back into the kitchen, looking between us nervously. “Everything okay?”
“Great,” I said, taking his arm. “Ready to go home?”
The drive back was quiet at first. Then Jett cleared his throat. “That was… weird.”
“Was it? I thought it was eye-opening.”
He glanced at me. “What do you mean?”
I reached into my bag and pulled out a business card for a divorce lawyer. I’d written the address on the back.
Jett stared at it when we stopped at a red light. “For real? You’re giving me an ultimatum?”
“Not an ultimatum. A choice.” I set the card on the dashboard. “If you want to keep fixing her house, you can live there too.”
The light turned green, but Jett didn’t move right away. A car behind us honked.
“I didn’t see how it looked,” he said finally, driving slowly. “She really does need help—”
“So do I,” I cut in. “I need a husband who’s here. Who fixes our leaky faucet. Who shows up for anniversary dinners.”
He was quiet for a long time. Then he picked up the lawyer’s card, looked at it, and put it in the glovebox.
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” he said. “Tell her I can’t be her fix-it guy anymore.”
“You’d do that?”
He took my hand. “I choose you, Lina. Always have.”
That was three months ago. We haven’t been back to Vina’s since.
I heard she found someone. A handy guy from one of the numbers I gave her. He fixed her water heater and brought her flowers, I heard.
As for us? My faucet’s finally fixed. And my husband? Let’s just say he knows who really holds the toolbox in this marriage.
