I’m Laura, married to Mike for five years, our love sparked in a café, both reaching for the same novel. His grin still lifts me, though lately, it’s been clouded. One evening, as I chopped veggies for stew, Mike called, “Where’s my toolbox?” “Under the stairs,” I answered. He appeared, keys in hand. “Susan’s heater’s out,” he said. “I’ll be quick.” I stirred harder. “Dinner’s soon.” He apologized and left. Susan, his ex-wife, called often—broken locks, faulty vents, a loose shelf. Mike always rushed over, saying, “The house can’t fall apart.”
They co-owned their former home, a “smart investment,” he’d told me when we dated. I tried to stay calm, but when he fixed her gutter while our gate creaked, I questioned it. After a late night at Susan’s repairing her dryer, I asked, “Why’s her laundry more important than ours?” He sipped tea. “She made dinner to thank me. It’s no big deal.” I eyed our cracked patio, feeling second. When he missed our dinner date to fix Susan’s lamp, I snapped. At midnight, I said, “Do you love her?” He looked hurt. “No, Laura! She’s clueless about repairs, not like you.”
“So I’m punished for managing?” I asked. He vowed to set boundaries, but I wasn’t sure. A week later, Susan texted about a “clogged drain.” As Mike grabbed his tools, I said, “I’m coming.” He stared. “To Susan’s?” I nodded. “It’s our investment too.” He agreed, unsure. The drive was quiet, the radio soft. Susan’s pristine ranch house showed no crisis. She opened the door in a silk gown, hair perfect, and stiffened seeing me. “Laura?” I smiled. “Here to help.” The “clog” was a trickle in her sink, barely an issue. I watched Mike tighten a bolt, saying, “Must’ve been urgent.”
Susan offered juice, which I declined. “We’ve got plans.” No men’s belongings were around—no hats, no tools—showing Susan’s calls were about Mike. While he cleaned up, I handed her a list of plumbers, a carpenter, and a dating app, writing, “Call Mike again, and we’re done.” She whispered, “You don’t get our past.” I said, “I’ve got his future.” In the car, I showed Mike a realtor’s card. “Keep fixing her place, and you can move there.” He paused, then stored it. “I’ll end this tomorrow,” he said, holding my hand. “You’re my choice.” Susan’s new repairman brought her gifts. Our gate’s fixed, and Mike’s tools stay home, where our love grows.
