“Don’t you miss him? Having to do everything yourself now?”
Ah, the million-dollar question. You could hear the room hush slightly, everyone waiting for my answer. But before I could even respond, my oldest friend—who’s known me since we were both sporting perms and lip gloss in the 80s—burst out laughing. “Miss him? She’s always done it all! While he fished or played tennis, Linda was up a ladder, with a hammer in one hand and a hedge trimmer in the other!”

And so it goes. Thirty years of marriage, and somehow I became the unofficial (and unpaid) facilities manager, head gardener, maintenance team, decorator, plumber, painter, and emergency crisis control all rolled into one. If something broke, I fixed it. If the hedge grew wild, I tamed it. If a lightbulb went out, you guessed it—I climbed the ladder. Meanwhile, he was too busy researching the best fishing rods or complaining that the tennis club had raised its fees again.

Let’s be clear: it wasn’t that he couldn’t do these things. It’s just that he had what I now call “selective incapability.”
If it involved mud, sweat, or elbow grease, he’d suddenly remember a crucial phone call or need to lie down. “Let’s just pay someone,” he’d say airily, as if money were fairy dust and household jobs were beneath the dignity of manhood. Me? I was out there on a Sunday morning covered in paint, balancing on a step stool muttering, “We are someone.”

I didn’t marry a handyman—I married a man with a hand in everything except helping.
And sure, it used to irritate me. There were times I’d be trying to rehang a door and wonder what it must feel like to be part of a team—where someone passes you the screwdriver instead of asking what’s for dinner while you’re holding up a ceiling beam with your shoulder.

But now? There’s something wonderfully satisfying about looking around at a life you’ve built with your own two hands (and about 56 rolls of duct tape).
I don’t miss nagging anyone to mow the lawn.
I don’t miss waiting three decades for a shelf to go up that I could have done in 30 minutes.
I certainly don’t miss the “I’ll get to it” that never came.
Because I got to it. Every. Single. Time.

And don’t get me wrong—there’s a funny side to it all now.
Like the time I assembled a flat-pack wardrobe by myself while he watched a fishing documentary and then told me I’d done it wrong because the doors opened the other way in the picture. Or when I climbed onto the roof to fix a leak while he shouted helpful things like, “Be careful!” from the safety of the sofa.

The truth is, I became self-sufficient not because I wanted to—but because I had to.
And you know what? It made me a powerhouse.
I can fix, build, plant, paint, and hang anything short of the moon.
And if I could reach it with my ladder, I’d probably have a go.

So no, I don’t miss him.
Because the reality is—he was never really there for the doing. He was there for the resting.
And now, I rest when I want to, not when someone else decides the garden looks ‘acceptable’ enough for tennis friends.

Turns out, doing it all for 30 years was training for a life where I don’t have to rely on anyone.
Just me, my tools, and the occasional glass of something bubbly to celebrate the fact that the toilet no longer leaks because I fixed it. Again.