I had anticipated my husband’s unwavering encouragement when my mother passed away,
but he deliberately chose a Hawaiian vacation over acknowledging my profound grief!
Surprised and utterly devastated, I endured the solemn funeral entirely by myself.
But when he finally returned, he was met by a scene he never saw coming,
as I imparted a lesson he would undoubtedly never forget.
I was immersed in my work when my phone screen illuminated with the doctor’s number, and somehow, I simply knew.
Mom was gone.
Just like that.
Nothing made any sense to me anymore.
I do not recall driving home.
One moment I was situated in my cubicle, and the very next I was struggling desperately to locate my house keys, my vision obscured by a torrent of tears.
John’s car was conspicuously parked in the driveway.
He must have had another one of his “work from home” days, which typically entailed passively watching ESPN on mute while feigning engagement with emails.
“John?” My voice resonated weakly through our house.
“John, I desperately need you.”
He emerged into the kitchen doorway, coffee mug clutched in hand, appearing subtly irritated at having his solitude interrupted.
“What’s amiss? You look absolutely dreadful.”
I attempted to speak, but the words became lodged somewhere between the anguish in my heart and the constriction in my throat.
Instead, I merely nodded my head forlornly and extended my arms outwards like a vulnerable child.
He carefully placed his mug down with a discernible sigh and offered me an awkward, perfunctory pat on the back.
“My mom,” I finally managed to articulate, regaining some semblance of control.
“She’s… she passed away, John. Mom is gone.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s… I am truly sorry, honey.”
He recoiled slightly.
“Would you like me to order takeout for us tonight? Perhaps from that Thai restaurant you favor?”
I numbly cried out, not truly registering his words.
Mom was gone.
The woman who had patiently taught me how to ride a bicycle, who had tirelessly worked two jobs to finance my college education after Dad’s departure, who still telephoned me every single Sunday just for a casual chat… she had vanished.
The following morning, the harsh reality began to fully set in.
There was an overwhelming amount of tasks to complete!
I had to meticulously prepare the funeral arrangements, painstakingly notify family and friends, and painstakingly sort through a lifetime’s worth of cherished belongings.
“John, we will need to cancel our Hawaii trip,” I stated.
“The funeral will likely be held next week, and—”
“Cancel?” John interjected, his voice rising in disbelief.
“Edith, those tickets were non-refundable. We would incur losses amounting to thousands of dollars. Furthermore, I have already meticulously prepared my tee times at the resort.”
I cried out at him, certain I had misheard his words.
“John, my mother just passed away.”
“Look, I comprehend that you are distressed, but funerals are primarily for immediate family. I am merely your husband—no one will genuinely notice my absence there.”
The words struck me with the force of a physical blow.
“Merely my husband?”
“You understand my meaning.”
He steadfastly avoided meeting my gaze, suddenly appearing exceptionally absorbed in straightening his necktie.
“Besides, someone ought to utilize the tickets. You can manage affairs here, and you are aware that I am completely inept at all this… emotional business.”
How had I never before discerned the way his eyes seemed to glaze over whenever I spoke of my feelings?
The way he consistently treated emotions as inconvenient interruptions in his meticulously structured life?
The subsequent week unfolded in a hazy blur of tears and logistical arrangements.
John would occasionally offer an awkward pat on my shoulder when he discovered me weeping, providing utterly unhelpful suggestions such as, “Perhaps you should consider taking a sleeping pill,” or “Have you attempted watching a comedic film?”
The day preceding the funeral, he departed for Hawaii with a swift peck on my cheek and a casual, “Text me if you require anything!”
I laid my mother to rest on a somber, rainy Thursday.
John, meanwhile, posted Instagram stories depicting sunset cocktails adorned with miniature umbrella garnishes.
“#ParadiseFound,” he captioned one.
“#LivingMyBestLife” while I was intently listening to the pastor speak about eternal life,
Something deep within me irrevocably snapped.
I had spent a full fifteen years concocting elaborate excuses for John’s emotional detachment.
“He’s simply not a person inclined towards expressing feelings,” I would patiently explain to my friends.
“He demonstrates his affection in other, less conventional ways.”
Was planning elaborate vacations to which he could escape whenever life became complicated truly a demonstration of love?
My friend Sarah happened to be a real estate agent.
It required only a single phone call to set my meticulous plan into motion.
“You desire me to do what precisely?” she inquired, her voice tinged with surprise.
“List our house. Exclusively online, with an open house scheduled for tomorrow. And be sure to prominently mention that the car is included with the property.”
“The convertible? John’s prized possession? Eddie, he will absolutely lose his mind! That automobile is his ultimate source of pride and joy.”
“That is precisely the intention,” I coolly replied.
“He cherishes that car more than anything else. More than me, most certainly.”
“Are you completely certain about this course of action?”
“I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life. Can you accomplish this for me?”
The following morning, precisely on schedule, a steady stream of “potential buyers” began to arrive.
When John’s Uber vehicle drew up to the driveway, I could not suppress a faint smile.
Game time.
“Edith! Why are there individuals pawing at my car? Some stranger just inquired if the leather seats were original!”
“Oh, that. I am in the process of selling the house. And the car serves as an excellent selling point, don’t you concur?”
“Selling the—” He bellowed, his voice filled with incredulity.
“Are you utterly insane? I will immediately contact Sarah and demand that this listing be taken down!”
“Go right ahead,” I stated sweetly.
“I am confident she would be delighted to hear from you. Perhaps you can regale her with tales of your vacation while you are at it. How was the beach? The water appeared lovely in your photographs.”
He cried out at me, “This… is this some form of retribution? Did I commit some transgression?”
“What do you mean? I am merely doing precisely what you would do: prioritizing my own self-interest.”
“After all, I am simply your wife. Not actual family, recall?”
The subsequent hour devolved into utter chaos.
I genuinely believed John might actually shed tears.
I allowed him to stew in his distress until Sarah sent me a text message indicating she was running out of friends to dispatch.
“Okay, fine,” I conceded.
“You are correct. I will not sell the house.”
I paused for dramatic effect.
“Or the car.”
“Thank goodness. Edith, I—”
I raised a hand to halt him.
“But things are going to profoundly change, John. I lost my mother, and you could not even be bothered to postpone a vacation. I needed my husband, and you were too preoccupied posting beach selfies to genuinely care.”
“I am truly sorry. I did not consider—”
“No, you did not. But you are going to learn. Because the next time you attempt something of this nature, it will not be a fictitious listing. And you can wager your original leather seats on that absolute certainty.”
“What actions can I take to improve?”
“You can commence by behaving like a genuine partner instead of merely a roommate who occasionally shares my bed. My mom is gone, John. She was the only parent I had remaining, and I am going to require time to truly mourn. Real grief, not the kind you can ameliorate with an extravagant dinner or a new piece of jewelry.”
“I do not know how to embody the man you require me to be, Edith, but I sincerely love you, and I am willing to exert effort to try.”
Things are currently not perfect.
John still struggles significantly with emotions that cannot be rectified with the swipe of his credit card.
But he consistently attends therapy sessions twice a month, and just last week, he genuinely inquired how I was coping with Mom’s passing.
He sat attentively and listened while I spoke about how profoundly I missed her Sunday calls, and how sometimes I still instinctively reach for the phone to share something amusing before abruptly remembering that I can no longer do so.
Baby steps.
Sometimes I contemplate what Mom’s reaction would be to all of this.
I can almost distinctly hear her laughter and visualize her nodding her head in approval.
“That’s my girl,” she would affirm.
“Never let them witness your struggle—just present them with the ‘For Sale’ sign instead.”
