When Henry dashed out—again—to help his ex-wife Liz with a “flooded kitchen,” I surprised him by saying, “I’m coming too.” The look on his face said everything. Fifteen minutes later, we stood on Liz’s porch. She opened the door in a silk robe, perfect hair, and glossy lips—then froze when she saw me.

Inside, there was no real flood. Just a suspicious puddle under the sink and a kitchen too clean for panic. Liz batted her lashes and offered lemonade. I declined. Henry got to work while I leaned on the counter, watching. No men’s shoes. No signs of another man. Just a woman still clinging to the past.

When Liz touched Henry’s arm and cooed, “My hero,” I handed her a folded note. She opened it to find a list of plumbers, electricians, and a dating app link. “If you keep calling my husband, I’ll assume you can’t read,” I’d written.

“You think you’ve won?” she hissed. “He always comes when I call.”

“He’s loyal,” I said. “You’re just exploiting that.”

On the way home, I handed Henry a divorce lawyer’s card. “If you want to keep fixing her house, live in it.” He was silent, then quietly placed the card in the glovebox.

“I’ll call her tomorrow,” he said. “I choose you.”

Three months later, Liz has a new boyfriend—one of the plumbers I recommended. My faucet’s finally fixed. And Henry? He knows exactly who holds the toolbox in this marriage now.