The Unspoken Weight

I was always proud of how capable my husband was. Mark worked in an office for years, but fixing things was his real passion. On weekends, he relaxed with a drill in his hand, repairing leaky faucets, shelves that wouldn’t stay up, or anything else that broke around the house. It felt comforting to be married to someone so reliable, someone who could always make things work again. So when the layoffs came, it shook him deeply. Months passed. Interviews that led nowhere. Polite rejection emails that thanked him for his time. His shoulders seemed to sink a little more each week. I watched his confidence thin out. I tried to hold us together the best I could. I encouraged him. I asked around. I kept the house as light as possible, even when the air between us felt heavy. That’s when I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. A beautiful evening carried by conversation, I said, “What if you did handyman work? Just locally. You’re good at this. Really good.” He laughed at first, imagining himself driving around apartment buildings with a drill and a tool belt. But the idea stayed with him longer than the laugh did. A week later, he made a simple website. Then a few Craigslist posts. And then the phone started ringing. At first, it felt like relief. He came home tired, but lighter somehow. Useful again. Needed. Most of his clients were women—single mothers, elderly ladies, divorced women in quiet houses. It made sense. They needed help, and he was respectful, fair, and kind. Maybe too kind. One night he told me a woman had tried to tip him extra. When he refused, she insisted he at least take a slice of homemade pound cake “for the effort.” He laughed while telling the story. I laughed too. But something in my chest tightened, just a little. After that, the stories kept coming. Nothing dramatic. Just details. Conversations that stretched longer than they needed to. Coffee offered after the job was done. A client who “really needed to talk.” Days when he came home later than expected. I told myself I was being unfair. We had been together for years. We loved each other. He had never given me a reason not to trust him. Still, I couldn’t ignore the new role he had stepped into. He wasn’t just fixing doors and cabinets anymore. He was entering the lives of women who were lonely, who had time, who noticed him. Handsome. Polite. Capable. The thoughts came quietly, but they stayed. What if one of them offered more than cake? What if one day he didn’t say no? “You’re jealous,” he said once, not unkindly. Almost amused. “You know I love you. I’m not looking for anything else.” I nodded. I wanted to believe him completely. Maybe my fear was unnecessary. Maybe this was just my own insecurity finding a place to sit. But my stomach still tightened every time he grabbed his keys and headed out to another address I didn’t know. Now I ask fewer questions. It hurts less that way. I tell myself that trust sometimes means silence, even when silence feels heavy and unfinished. I don’t know what the right answer is. Part of me wishes he’d find a different job, something safer for my nerves. Another part of me knows I can’t ask that of him. This work gave him back a piece of himself. And I was the one who suggested it.