The phone rang again.

And, as always, my husband dropped everything and ran out the door. This time, I didn’t stay behind then I followed. When we arrived, his ex-wife opened the door in a silk robe, her confident smile freezing when she saw me standing beside him.

Without a word, Henry headed straight for the kitchen, toolbox in hand. I lingered in the doorway, watching in silence. In that moment, something inside me shifted not out of jealousy, but out of clarity. I finally saw how much of our life had been quietly placed on pause.

Our marriage had always been built on the little things – coffee dates at old bookstores, muttered talks past midnight, laughter over burnt pancakes. But lately, those moments had been replaced by the endless ring of Liz’s phone calls. Every broken hinge, every leaky pipe, every “urgent” task somehow required his hands. Meanwhile, the dripping faucet in our own kitchen kept time like a metronome of neglect. That’s when I knew something had to give.

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