My husband refused to fix the faucet, then I caught him on his knees at the young neighbor’s house — my lesson was cruel.
My husband had “too much work” to fix our faucet. But as soon as our young and beautiful neighbor needed help, he turned into “Mr. Fix-It,” wrench in hand, showing off his biceps under the water drops. I didn’t scream or make a scene when I caught him. No; I had prepared a lesson that was worth every second of waiting.
Marriage requires trust, respect, and sometimes patience. But nothing prepared me for the moment I found my husband, shirtless, kneeling under our neighbor’s sink, for whom he suddenly had time, while for my own leak, my complaint “wasn’t his problem.” That’s when I understood things had to change…
A few weeks ago, I noticed a small leak under our kitchen sink. At first, an annoying drip, then soon a real mess, a puddle growing under the cabinet.
I found Mark, sprawled on the couch, nose buried in his phone.
“Mark,” I said, leaning on the door frame, “our sink is leaking more and more. There’s water everywhere.”
He barely looked up. “Then call a plumber.”
His contempt hit me hard. I straightened up: “But you know how to fix sinks! You did it last year when you installed our new mixer.”
This time, he looked at me, annoyed: “Marina, I’m busy. You can see I’m not slacking: I’m sorting my emails.”
“It would take you fifteen minutes!” I insisted. “A plumber would charge…”
“For God’s sake!” he cut me off. “I don’t have fifteen minutes! Get yourself a plumber and let me work.”
My cheeks burned. “Really? We’re flooded, don’t you care?”
“It’s just a slight seepage,” he replied, diving back into his screen. “And if you keep nagging, that’s why I never want to deal with it: the whining makes everything worse.”
“Whining?” The word sounded like a slap. I waited for him to realize how hurtful it was.
“Fine,” I sighed. “I’ll call someone tomorrow.”
A week later, I paid 12,000 rubles to the plumber who fixed our problem in exactly twelve minutes.
Coming back from the grocery store, arms full of bags, I ran into Lilia, our neighbor. Young, blonde, and lively, she embodied everything I was no longer at forty: dynamic, carefree, and unfairly perfect.
“Hi Marina!” she called, running to help me. “Let me carry the bags.”
“Thank you,” I replied, handing her the heaviest ones. “I can manage.”
“Come on, neighbors help each other! By the way, your husband is great: what man wouldn’t drop everything to help a neighbor in distress?”
I nearly twisted my ankle on a crack in the path. “My husband…? Mark?”
She smiled enthusiastically: “Yes! He’s at my place right now: my kitchen is flooded. I knocked on your door, and he came out right away, toolbox in hand!”
My bags felt ten kilos heavier. “Oh…”
“Exactly! He even took off his shirt when water splashed his chest,” she giggled. “I told him not to bother, but he insisted: it was more practical.”
“I’m not surprised…” I muttered, feeling anger rise.
“Want to see?” she offered. “I’m trying to figure out how these pipes work since mine broke.”
“Sure! Let’s see your handyman in action.”
We sneaked in quietly. She pointed to the kitchen.
“He’s been struggling there for almost half an hour,” she whispered. “It’s more complicated than I thought.”
Ironically, he found half an hour for her, but not fifteen minutes for me.
I pushed the door open. There was my husband, with whom I’ve shared my nights for fifteen years, kneeling under Lilia’s sink. Shirtless, 45 years well distributed, focused on the pipes.
“Hi Mark, how’s it going?” Lilia asked.
“Hi! I’m struggling a bit, this joint’s seal is tricky,” he replied without seeing me. “If you’d called a plumber, it would have cost you a fortune!”
“Really?” she smiled.
“Not with me! He would have charged you at least 15,000 rubles.”
Fifteen thousand!? Three thousand more than what I paid.
“You’re my savior,” Lilia said.
“It’s just being neighborly,” he said, feeling his oil-slicked muscles.
I picked up my bags and left unnoticed. The walk home gave me plenty of time to stew. It wasn’t just about the faucet: it was about respect and recognition.
Mark came home around six, still damp from the shower. “Where were you today?” I asked while chopping vegetables.
He hesitated. “I went to the hardware store.”
“Did you find what you needed?”
“Yes, just a few things.” He pulled out a beer.
“By the way,” I said, tossing the veggies in the pan, “the plumber came this morning: he fixed the sink.”
“Oh yeah? How much did it cost?”
“12,000 rubles,” I replied. “He said it was simple.”
He flinched. “That’s daylight robbery.”
I gave him a small smile. “You know what they say: if you want it done right…”
He said nothing more. That night, not another word. No reproaches, just my little revenge.
The next weekend, I hosted a barbecue. The neighbors gathered in our garden. Mark, cheerful, manned the grill. I waited for Lilia, radiant in her summer dress. Mark met her gaze, then looked away when he saw mine.
Perfect.
When the crowd gathered around the drinks table, I called out:
“Lilia! Come, introduce yourself: this is our new neighbor, Lilia!”
She approached, flattered. I gently took her by the shoulder.
“Tell me, Lilia, how did you get Mark to come fix your kitchen so quickly? I’ve been waiting for that service for a year!”
An awkward silence fell. Mark froze by the grill.
Lilia laughed nervously. “I just knocked on the door and asked politely!”
“Interesting!” I continued. “When our sink leaked last week, he claimed to be too busy, and I had to pay 15,000 rubles to a plumber!”
“Oh…” Lilia murmured, embarrassed.
All the neighbors stared at us, stunned.
“Maybe he was more available that day?” she tried.
“Maybe,” I replied. “I guess working shirtless helps: our plumber never tried that method.”
Stifled laughter rippled through the group. Mark came toward me, furious.
“Marina, can we talk inside?”
I smiled calmly. “Why? I was just talking about DIY…”
He almost dragged me inside. “You’re ridiculous!”
I crossed my arms. “What are you mad about? You embarrassed us by choosing the neighbor over your wife and lying to me.”
His face turned crimson. “You’re exaggerating! I was just being a good neighbor.”
“A good neighbor? Really?”
I let him talk to himself and left. But the story wasn’t over: the real finale came later.
In the days that followed, I became totally “incompetent” at everything he took for granted.
Monday morning, his alarm didn’t ring. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?” he panicked.
I sipped my coffee. “It’s running fast, I couldn’t be bothered. Ask a watchmaker.”
Tuesday, his drawer was empty of clean clothes. “Marina, where are my clothes?”
I looked up from my book. “Probably in the dirty laundry basket. Ask Lilia: she’s good with her machine.”
Thursday, he came home hungry and found an empty kitchen. “No dinner?”
I shrugged. “Had a busy day, didn’t want to waste fifteen minutes. Try ‘Rapid’Plats’, they’re great.”
Finally, Friday night, he sat down in front of me. “Alright,” he admitted, defeated. “I get it.”
I waited.
“I acted like a jerk. I didn’t want to fix our sink, but I was happy to help Lilia.”
“She made you feel important? Useful? Appreciated?”
He nodded, ashamed. “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t think how it would make you feel.”
I looked at him for a moment. “You know what hurt the most? It wasn’t that you helped the neighbor, but that you made me feel like I was asking too much by expecting help from my own husband.”
“I know,” he whispered, taking my hand. “I really screwed up.”
I let his hand rest in mine, without giving in. “In the bathroom, the faucet’s been dripping since this morning.”
A flash of fear crossed his face. “I’ll fix it. Right now.”
“Are you sure? Not too busy? I can call the plumber…”
“No, no!” he jumped up. “I’ll do it.”
He replaced the washer without complaint. Watching him work, I realized that sometimes, the problem isn’t the sink, but making your husband realize your worth.
Now, Mark fixes everything at home without grumbling. As for Lilia? Let’s just say she found a plumber who does work with his shirt on and charges top dollar.
Last week, our dishwasher started making a funny noise: I barely had time to mention it before Mark was already under the machine.
“You know,” I said, handing him the wrench, “I’ve noticed a direct link between fixing sinks and marital happiness.”
He laughed, looking up at me full of love. “Lesson learned. The hard way.”
“Perfect,” I kissed the top of his head. “Next time, instead of humiliating you at the barbecue, I’ll invite your mother.”
Marriage is built on trust, respect, and realizing that if you fix a neighbor’s kitchen before your wife’s, your own comfort will end up leaking away. And trust me, in the face of such a flood, no one will be able to save you.
