My husband, Duncan, and I had spent fifteen years building a life wrapped in routines—two kids, a mortgage, and the rhythm of shared dinners and reruns. It wasn’t exciting, but it was safe. Predictable.
That’s why I never expected our toilet to be the thing that would blow it all apart.
It began innocently enough. The main bathroom toilet was sluggish, barely refilling after each flush. I mentioned it casually, expecting Duncan to fix it. He muttered, “I’ll check it out,” without glancing up from his phone.Days passed. Then a week.
“If you’re not going to fix it, I will,” I said after brushing my teeth one night. He barely looked up, donut in hand. “Better not mess with it,” he warned. “It’s hanging on by a thread.”
