Well, here we are again. Just back from the DIY store with a trolley full of goodies: filler, cement, paint, brushes, rollers—everything short of a bulldozer. Why? Because after three years of neglect, yet another house is whispering “please help me.” And of course, I’m the one answering the call.
Honestly, it’s not even shocking anymore. If there’s one thing I can rely on, it’s a man like him leaving things in disrepair—whether it’s floorboards, door hinges, or relationships.
This isn’t my first DIY rodeo. In fact, if there were an Olympic event for “Making a House a Home After a Man’s Been in It,” I’d be on the podium. Gold medal. National anthem. Standing ovation from every woman who’s ever picked up a paintbrush after picking up the pieces of a broken relationship.
🛠️ The Selfish Abuser’s Home Improvement Philosophy:
“If it ain’t collapsing, it’s fine.”
He could walk past a hole in the wall and call it character. He’d step over the same squeaky floorboard for five years and call it vintage. He was a man of great vision—so long as that vision involved you doing the work.
Whether I was working full-time or juggling ten plates at once, guess who was still expected to keep the home not just standing—but glowing, smelling of fresh lemons, and welcoming to guests?
And guess what he was doing during all this? Absolutely nothing. Except, of course, offering critiques like:
- “Why are you repainting the walls? I didn’t notice the mold.”
- “It’s only a leak if it drips more than once a minute.”
- “Can’t we just move the sofa over the stain?”
🛏️ Sex and the Self-Centered City
Ah yes, and let’s not forget the generosity in the bedroom—which had all the warmth and reciprocity of a broken vending machine. Intimacy? Only if there was something in it for him. Romance? Not unless there was a spreadsheet and ROI involved.
But here’s the kicker—I didn’t even take it personally. Because he was the same with everyone else! The last wife? Same story. The kids? Don’t even ask. Grandkids? Wouldn’t lift a finger or a phone. He treated “help” like it was a rare blood type he didn’t carry.
đź’¸ Holidays? You Mean… Those Things Other People Go On?
Would he ever pay for a holiday? He wouldn’t even Google one. The man’s idea of a break was you collapsing from exhaustion while he watched you from his throne of entitlement, wondering why you looked so tired.
And decorating together? Ha! You’d have more luck convincing a cat to bathe. The man couldn’t tell a paintbrush from a barbecue skewer. But he could point out where you’d missed a bit, in between napping and muttering about how busy he was doing… what, exactly? (We may never know.)
🧽 So Here I Am: Repairing Again—But Not Just the House
The irony is delicious, isn’t it? I’m back to sewing, painting, scrubbing, mending—just like I always did. But this time, there’s one major difference.
I’m not doing it for him. I’m doing it for me.
There’s no one here criticising my brushstrokes, dismissing my effort, or waiting for me to fail just to say, “Told you so.” There’s no emotional vacuum sucking the joy out of my home. Just me, a roller, and the sweet sound of freedom echoing in these freshly repaired walls.
đź‘‘ The Legacy of the Lazy King
And what legacy does he leave? A crumbling trail of “couldn’t be bothered,” “what’s in it for me,” and “you do it.” A throne of broken promises and half-done shelves.
But I? I leave a legacy of resilience.
Of painted walls and patched cracks.
Of homes that were made beautiful not because of him—but in spite of him.
Because queens build. Queens restore. Queens rise.
Even if it’s with cement dust in our hair and paint under our nails.
