“TOO BUSY” FOR ME, BUT NOT FOR HER? OH, HE’LL REGRET THIS.
Two weeks ago, our kitchen sink started leaking. It wasn’t a big deal at first—just a slow drip—but by the end of the week, it turned into a full-blown mess. Naturally, I asked my husband, Mark, to fix it. His response? He didn’t even look up from his phone. “Call a plumber. I’m busy, Claire. Do I look like I have time to play handyman? Just stop nagging.” Nagging? Fine. I called a plumber, paid $180, and moved on.
“YOU’RE SO LUCKY!”
That same afternoon, I ran into our new neighbor, Lily. She was in her late 20s—blonde, bubbly, with legs for days. She flashed me a bright smile. “Claire, you are SO lucky!” she gushed. I blinked. “Lucky? For what?” “Mark is such a handyman!” she giggled. I swear, my heart skipped a beat. What. The. Hell? “He’s fixing my sink right now!” she added. “I knocked on your door earlier, and he was home, so he came right over. So sweet of him!” My stomach dropped. No. Freaking. Way. I took a deep breath, forced a smile, and said, “Oh… really? How nice.” Then, without another word, I walked straight into her apartment.
BUSTED.
And there he was. ON HIS KNEES. Fixing her damn sink. The same man who told me he was too busy to do it for his own wife. Oh, he was about to regret every damn second of this. He looked up, saw me, and instantly froze. “C-Claire?” he stammered. Lily, completely oblivious, chirped, “He’s so handy! You must love that about him!” Oh, I loved something about him, alright—That he was about to SUFFER. I plastered on my sweetest smile. “Oh, honey, you’re so good at fixing things! I must’ve misunderstood when you said you didn’t have time!” Mark swallowed hard. Lily clapped. “See? I told you he’s amazing!” I grinned. “You know what else he’s amazing at, Lily?” I said, tilting my head. “Paying for plumbers! The one I had to call because he was ‘too busy’ for me? That was $180! But don’t worry—I’ll just take it out of his fun money.” Mark’s face drained of color. Oh yeah, buddy. You’re paying for this. Lily blinked, clearly starting to put the pieces together. “Oh… oh,” she whispered, suddenly very interested in the floor. Mark opened his mouth—then closed it.
Because he knew.
He knew he was completely, utterly screwed.
THE AFTERMATH
That night, I transferred $180 straight out of Mark’s “boys’ night out” fund.
Then I cut the WiFi.
And hid the game console controllers.
And took the car keys.
If he was so “busy,” he could go be busy in silence.
And let’s just say—
Mark never refused to fix a sink for me again.