I predicted my husband’s encouragement when my mom passed away, but he selected a Hawaii vacation over my grief! Surprised and ravaged, I suffered the funeral alone. But when he returned, he was welcomedby a scene he never saw coming as I taught him a lesson he’d never forget.
I was at work when my phone lit up with the doctor’s number and somehow, I just knew.
Mom was gone. Just like that. Nothing made sense anymore.
I don’t remember driving home. One minute I was in my cubicle, and the next I was struggling to find my house keys, vision blurry with tears. John’s car was in the driveway.
He must’ve had another “work from home” day, which usually meant watching ESPN on mute while pretending to answer emails.
“John?” My voice sounded through our house. “John, I need you.”
He came in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand, looking slightly irritated at being intruded. “What’s wrong? You look horrible.”
I tried to speak, but the words got stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat. Instead, I just nodded head and held out my arms like a child. He set down his mug with a sigh and gave me an awkward pat on the back.
“My mom,” I finally controlled. “She’s… she di:ed, John. Mom passed away.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s… I’m sorry, honey.”
He pulled back. “Want me to order takeout tonight? Maybe from that Thai place you like?”
I shouted numbly, not really hearing him. Mom was gone. The woman who’d taught me to ride a bike, who’d worked two jobs to put me through college after Dad left, who still called me every Sunday just to chat… disappeared.
The next morning, reality began setting in. There was so much to do! I had to prepare the funeral, notify family and friends, and sort through a lifetime of belongings.
“John, we’ll need to cancel Hawaii,” I said. “The funeral will probably be next week, and—”
“Cancel?” John said. “Edith, those tickets were unredeemable. We’d lose thousands. Plus, I already prepared my tee times at the resort.”
I cried at him, sure I’d misheard. “John, my mother just di:ed.”
“Look, I know you’re agitated, but funerals are for family. I’m just your husband — no one will miss me there.”
The words knocked me like a physical blow. “Just my husband?”
“You know what I mean.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes, suddenly very excited in straightening his tie. “Besides, someone should use the tickets. You can control things here, and you know I’m no good at all this… emotional stuff.”
How had I never spotted the way his eyes glazed over whenever I talked about my feelings? The way he treated emotions like inconvenient interruptions in his carefully scheduled life?
The next week happened in a blur of tears and logistics.
John would occasionally pat my shoulder awkwardly when he found me crying, providing helpful suggestions like, “Maybe you should take a sleeping pill” or “Have you tried watching a comedy?”
The day before the funeral, he left for Hawaii with a quick peck on my cheek and a “Text me if you need anything!”
I buried my mother on a rainy Thursday. John posted Instagram stories of sunset cocktails with little umbrella garnishes. “#ParadiseFound,” he captioned one. “#LivingMyBestLife while I was listening to the pastor talk about eternal life,
Something inside me snapped.
I’d spent fifteen years making excuses for John’s emotional constipation. “He’s just not a feelings person,” I’d tell my friends. “He shows his love in other ways.”
Planning elaborate vacations he could escape to when life got messy?
My friend Sarah was a realtor. It took one call to prapare my plan in motion.
“You want me to what?” she asked.
“List our house. Online only, open house tomorrow. And make sure to mention the car comes with it.”
“The convertible? John’s baby? Eddie, he’ll flip! That car is his pride and joy.”
“That’s the idea,” I replied.
“He loves that car more than anything. More than me, definitely.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Can you do it?”
The next morning, right on schedule, a steady stream of “potential buyers” began arriving.
When John’s Uber drew up, I couldn’t help but smile. Game time.
“Edith! Why are there people pawing at my car? Some guy just asked if the leather seats were original!”
“Oh, that. I’m selling the house. And the car is a great selling point, don’t you think?”
“Selling the—” He shouted. “Are you insane? I’ll call Sarah and get this listing taken down immediately!”
“Go ahead,” I said sweetly. “I’m sure she’d love to hear from you. Maybe you can tell her about your vacation while you’re at it. How was the beach? The water looked lovely in your photos.”
He cried at me “This… is this some kind of penalty? Did I do something wrong?”
“What do you mean? I’m just doing what you would do: looking out for number one.”
“After all, I’m just your wife. Not family, remember?”
The next hour was mess.
I thought John might actually cry. I let him stew until Sarah texted that she was running out of friends to send over.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “You’re right. I won’t sell the house.” I paused for effect. “Or the car.”
“Thank God. Edith, I—”
I held up a hand. “But things are going to alter, John. I lost my mother, and you couldn’t even be bothered to change a vacation. I needed my husband, and you were too busy posting beach selfies to care.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t. But you’re going to work. Because next time you pull something like this, it won’t be a fake listing. And you can bet your original leather seats on that.”
“What can I do to improve?”
“You can start by acting like a partner instead of a roommate who occasionally shares my bed. My mom’s gone, John. She was the only parent I had left, and I’m going to need time to sorrow. Real grief, not the kind you can fix with a fancy dinner or a new piece of jewelry.”
“I don’t know how to be the man you need me to be, Edith, but I love you and I want to try.”
Things aren’t great now. John still battles with emotions that can’t be changed with his credit card. But he goes to therapy twice a month, and last week, he actually asked how I was feeling about Mom.
He sat and listened while I talked about how much I missed her Sunday calls, and how sometimes I still reach for the phone to tell her something funny before remembering I can’t.
Baby steps.
Sometimes I think about what Mom would say about all this. I can almost hear her laugh and see her nodding her head.
“That’s my girl,” she’d say. “Never let them see you sweat — just show ’em the ‘For Sale’ sign instead.”
