When I agreed to follow my husband Henry to his ex-wife Liz’s house, I didn’t expect to find her in a silk robe, flawless hair, and glossy lips. But what shocked me most was the look on her face when she saw me standing beside him.

Henry and I met by chance in a bookstore, reaching for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. Five years into marriage, I still loved him deeply, but lately, his constant trips to Liz’s house had been eating away at me. He never rushed to fix our leaky faucet, yet he dropped everything when Liz called about broken sinks, loose banisters, or wobbly cabinets. His excuse was always the same: “She has no one else, and I don’t want the house getting ruined.”

One night, after he missed our anniversary dinner to fix her garage door, I asked him outright if he still loved her. He denied it, insisting she was just “helpless.” But when Liz called again about “flooding,” I decided to ride along. The kitchen was spotless, except for a suspiciously fresh puddle. While Henry worked, Liz hovered in her robe, placing a hand on his arm. That’s when I handed her a paper from my purse—a list of plumbers, electricians, gardeners, and even a dating app. At the bottom, I’d written: If you keep calling my husband, I’ll assume you can’t read.

On the drive home, I gave Henry a divorce lawyer’s card. “Not an ultimatum,” I said. “A choice.” He slipped it into the glovebox and promised to cut ties.

Three months later, Liz has a new handyman—and Henry finally fixed our faucet. More importantly, he remembered who he really built a life with: me.