My husband was “too busy” to fix our kitchen sink, but when our young, pretty neighbor needed hers repaired, he was suddenly a shirtless hero, wrench in hand, water dripping down his arms. I didn’t yell or make a scene when I caught him. Instead, I planned a lesson that hit home harder than any fight could.
Marriage is built on trust, respect, and sometimes putting up with each other’s nonsense. But nothing prepared me for seeing my husband, shirtless and kneeling, fixing our neighbor’s sink—a job he’d brushed off as “not his problem” when it was ours. That moment lit a fire in me, and I knew I had to make him see what he’d done.
A few weeks back, our kitchen sink started leaking. At first, it was just a pesky drip, but soon it was a mess, with water pooling under the cabinet.
I found Sylas sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to his phone. “Sylas,” I said, standing by the door, “the kitchen sink’s getting worse. Water’s all over the place now.”
He barely looked up, fingers tapping away. “Just call a plumber, Elyra.”
I frowned, caught off guard. “But you know how to fix sinks. You did it last year with the new faucet, remember?”
He glanced at me, annoyed. “Elyra, I’m swamped. You think I’m just chilling? I’m dealing with work stuff.”
“It’d take you 15 minutes,” I said. “The plumber charges—”
“God, enough,” he snapped. “I don’t have 15 minutes for this! Call the plumber and let me focus.”
My cheeks burned. “Focus? Our kitchen’s a swamp.”
“It’s a drip, not a flood,” he said, eyes back on his phone. “And your nagging makes it worse. That’s why I don’t bother with these things.”
Nagging? The word hit like a punch. I stood there, waiting for him to realize how mean he’d been. He didn’t.
“Fine,” I said, voice sharp. “I’ll call someone tomorrow.”
A week later, I paid a plumber $180 to fix the sink in 12 minutes flat.
Coming back from the grocery store, arms full of bags, I ran into our neighbor, Viora, a lively woman in her late 20s with a charm that made my tired, late-30s self feel plain.
“Hey, Elyra!” she called, rushing over to help. “Let me grab some of those bags!”
“Thanks,” I said, handing her a couple. “I can handle it, though.”
“No way!” She flashed a bright smile. “Neighbors stick together. Speaking of, your husband’s awesome! Not every guy would drop everything to fix a sink for someone in a jam.”
I nearly dropped my bags. “My husband… Sylas?”
“Yup!” she said, nodding. “He’s at my place now! My sink was totally clogged. I knocked, and he grabbed his tools, no questions asked!”
The bags felt like lead. “Really?”
“For sure! He’s so nice. Even took his shirt off when water splashed him.” She giggled. “I told him it’s fine, but he said he works better that way.”
“I bet,” I muttered, anger simmering in my chest.
“Mind if I pop over?” I asked, keeping my tone light. “I’ve been curious about sink fixes since ours broke. Sylas keeps his tricks hush-hush.”
“Come on over!” Viora said. “See your handyman in action!”
We slipped into her apartment quietly. She winked and pointed to the kitchen. “He’s been at it for almost half an hour,” she whispered. “Said it’s a tough one.”
Funny how he had half an hour for her “tough” sink but not 15 minutes for our “little” one.
I peeked into the kitchen. There was Sylas, my husband of 15 years, shirtless under Viora’s sink, his strong back shiny with sweat as he worked the pipes.
“Hey, Sylas, how’s it going?” Viora asked cheerfully.
“Hey! Just battling these pipes,” he said, not seeing me. “Gotta tighten this, or you’ll get leaks like Elyra had. Yours is a bit trickier, though.”
“Of course it is,” I thought, fuming.
“Will it cost a lot?” Viora asked, leaning against the counter, her figure impossible to ignore.
Sylas laughed. “Not with me doing it free! A plumber would’ve hit you for at least two hundred bucks.”
Two hundred? Twenty more than I’d paid.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Viora said sweetly. “I owe you big time.”
“Just being a good neighbor,” Sylas said, his voice warm.
I’d heard enough. I grabbed my groceries and slipped out, unnoticed, my blood boiling. This wasn’t just about a sink—it was about respect, about being pushed aside. He’d learn.
That evening, Sylas came home around six, hair damp like he’d showered. “Where were you today?” I asked, chopping veggies for dinner, keeping my voice casual.
He paused, just a second too long. “Running errands. Hit the hardware store.”
“Get what you needed?”
“Yeah,” he said, grabbing a beer. “Just some stuff.”
I nodded, tossing veggies into a pan. “By the way, the plumber fixed our sink today.”
“Good,” he said, looking relieved. “How much?”
“$180,” I said. “He called it an easy fix.”
Sylas cringed. “That’s a rip-off.”
I smirked. “Well, you know what they say: if you want it done right…”
He looked uneasy but forced a smile and left the room. I stayed quiet—no fights, no jabs. I had a bigger plan. That weekend, I threw a neighborhood barbecue, and Sylas had no clue what was coming.
Saturday was perfect for a barbecue. Neighbors filled our backyard with food and drinks. Sylas worked the grill, playing the charming host.
I waited until Viora showed up in a sundress that caught every eye. Sylas glanced at her, then quickly looked away when he saw me watching. Perfect.
When a crowd gathered by the drinks table, I made my move. “Viora! Come meet everyone,” I called, waving her over. “This is our new neighbor, Viora.”
She grinned, soaking up the attention. I slung an arm around her, smiling. “Viora, how’d you get Sylas to fix your sink so fast? I’ve been begging for years to get that kind of help!”
The chatter quieted. Sylas froze at the grill.
Viora, clueless, laughed. “I just knocked and asked! He was so nice, came right over with his tools!”
“Really?” I said, staring at Sylas. “Because when our sink was leaking last week, he said he was too busy, and I had to shell out $180 for a plumber.”
Viora gasped, covering her mouth. “Oh, no!”
Neighbors glanced between us, the air thick with tension. Someone muttered, “Trouble.”
“Maybe he wasn’t busy that day?” Viora said, trying to smooth it over.
“Must be,” I said, my voice sharp. “And taking his shirt off probably helped him work better, right? Our plumber didn’t try that.”
A few nervous chuckles broke out. Sylas ditched the grill, storming over, his face dark. “Elyra,” he hissed, “can we talk inside? Now?”
I smiled brightly. “Why? I’m just chatting about fix-it jobs.”
He grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the house. “Excuse us,” he called over his shoulder.
Inside, he turned on me. “What are you doing, embarrassing us like that?”
“I’m making a point,” I said, arms crossed, calm but firm.
“You’re humiliating us in front of the whole neighborhood!”
“No,” I said, voice steady. “You humiliated yourself when you said our sink wasn’t worth your time but hers was. You humiliated yourself when you lied about it.”
His face flushed. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. I was just helping a neighbor!”
“Helping?” I laughed bitterly. “If old Mr. Gavren asked for sink help, would you have rushed over shirtless?”
He had no answer.
“Exactly,” I said, voice cold. “Go back to the party. I just wanted you to feel what it’s like to be ignored… to feel like you don’t matter in your own marriage.”
I walked out, but I wasn’t done. For the next few days, I turned the tables, ignoring his needs the way he’d ignored mine.
Monday, his alarm didn’t go off. “What happened to my alarm?” he asked, scrambling for work.
I sipped my coffee. “Oh, the clock’s off, but I figured you were too busy to fix it. Call someone.”
Tuesday, he found no clean clothes. “Elyra, where’s my stuff?”
“In the hamper,” I said, reading my book. “The washer’s tricky. Maybe ask Viora how it works?”
Thursday, he came home hungry to an empty kitchen. “No dinner?” he asked, staring into the fridge.
“Busy day,” I shrugged. “Didn’t have time for something so small. There’s takeout down the street.”
By Friday, he sat across from me at the table, worn out. “Okay,” he said. “I get it.”
I put down my newspaper, waiting.
“I was a jerk,” he said. “I didn’t fix our sink because I didn’t feel like it, but I helped Viora because… it made me feel good, needed.”
“Needed? Appreciated?” I asked.
He nodded, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see how it hurt you, or how lying made it worse.”
“The worst part wasn’t you helping her,” I said. “It was you making me feel like I was asking too much, like I didn’t matter.”
“I know,” he said, taking my hand. “I screwed up.”
“The bathroom sink’s dripping now,” I said. “Started today.”
“I’ll fix it,” he said, standing. “Right now.”
“You sure? Not too busy? I can call the plumber…”
“No way,” he said, already moving. “I’m on it.”
He fixed the sink in no time. Watching him, I realized the real issue wasn’t the sink—it was making sure your partner feels like they matter.
Now, Sylas fixes everything around the house without a grumble. Viora? She’s got a professional plumber now—one who keeps his shirt on and charges full price.
Last week, when our dishwasher started clunking, Sylas was under it before I could finish talking. “You know,” I said, handing him a wrench, “happy marriages and fixed sinks seem to go hand in hand.”
He laughed, looking up with real warmth. “Lesson learned. Hard way.”
“Good,” I said, kissing his head. “Because next time, I won’t just throw a barbecue. I’ll invite your mom to watch.”
