I’m Anna, and five years ago, I met David in a bookshop, both drawn to the same classic. His warmth still sparks joy, though recent weeks dimmed it. One night, as I baked chicken, David yelled, “Where’s my tool bag?” “By the door,” I called. He appeared, keys ready. “Lisa’s fence is down,” he said. “I’ll be fast.” I frowned. “Dinner’s almost ready.” He apologized and left. Lisa, his ex, called often—squeaky hinges, dead outlets, a stuck gate. David always went, saying, “She’s got no one, and the house matters.”
They still owned their old place together, a “temporary plan,” he’d said when we started dating. I tried to be understanding, but when he fixed her blinds while our steps wobbled, I doubted. After hours at Lisa’s repairing her fan, I asked, “Why’s her comfort first?” He drank coffee. “She cooked to thank me. It’s nothing.” I looked at our faded deck, feeling overlooked. When he skipped our evening walk to fix Lisa’s shelf, I’d had enough. At 11 p.m., I asked, “Are you still hers?” He looked stunned. “No, Anna! She’s hopeless with fixes, not like you.”
“So I lose because I’m capable?” I said. He promised change, but I wasn’t convinced. A week later, Lisa texted about a “broken pipe.” As David packed tools, I grabbed my purse. “I’m going.” He blinked. “To Lisa’s?” I nodded. “It’s our business too.” He agreed slowly. The drive was silent, houses passing by. Lisa’s tidy home looked fine. She answered in a lace robe, makeup perfect, and froze seeing me. “Anna’s here?” I smiled. “Thought I’d pitch in.” The “pipe” was a tiny drip, no emergency. I watched David adjust it, saying, “Must’ve been scary.”
Lisa offered soda, which I declined. “We’re busy later.” No men’s items were around—no coats, no tools—showing Lisa wanted David’s attention. While he washed up, I gave her a list of repairmen, a painter, and a dating site, noting, “Call David again, and we’ll talk.” She hissed, “You don’t know our history.” I said, “I know our life now.” In the car, I showed David a lawyer’s card. “Fix her house, and you’re choosing it.” He sighed, tucking it away. “I’ll stop tomorrow,” he said, taking my hand. “It’s you.” Lisa’s new handyman brought her lilies. Our steps are sturdy, and David’s tools stay with us, building our future.
