When I decided to join my husband, Henry, on one of his late-night trips to his ex-wife’s house, I didn’t know what to expect. She opened the door in a silk robe with her hair perfectly styled and her lips glossy. The surprise on her face when she saw me beside him said everything. Henry headed straight to the kitchen with his toolbox, while I stood back and observed. Something about the scene made me realize this had gone on long enough.
Henry and I met in a bookstore years ago, both reaching for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. Five years of marriage later, he still gives me butterflies—at least most days. But recently, his constant trips to help Liz had tested my patience. Every call from her seemed urgent: a leaky faucet, a broken remote, a wobbly railing. Meanwhile, our own faucet at home had been dripping for weeks without attention. I couldn’t ignore the imbalance any longer.
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