When my mom passed away unexpectedly, I assumed my husband, John, would support me through the devastating loss. But instead, he chose to go on our planned vacation to Hawaii, leaving me to navigate the grief and funeral preparations alone. What happened after he returned, though, was a lesson he’d never forget.
The Call That Changed Everything
It all started at work when my phone lit up with the doctor’s number. Even before answering, I knew. My heart sank as the words “Your mother is gone” echoed in my ears. One moment, she was battling a minor infection, and the next, she was just… gone.
I don’t even remember how I got home that day. One minute I was sitting in my cubicle, and the next, I was fumbling with my keys, tears blurring my vision. John was home, as usual, pretending to work remotely while half-watching ESPN.
“John, I need you,” I called out, my voice shaky.
He appeared from the kitchen, mug in hand, looking slightly annoyed. “What’s wrong? You look awful.”
I struggled to find the words, and instead, reached out for him like a child. When I finally managed to say, “Mom’s gone, John. She’s dead,” his response was shockingly cold.
“Oh… wow. That’s… I’m sorry, honey,” he said, pulling back and offering, “Should I order takeout tonight? Maybe that Thai place you like?”
The Unbelievable Vacation
The next morning, reality hit hard. I needed to plan the funeral, notify relatives, and handle my mom’s affairs. Then it hit me—our vacation to Hawaii was scheduled for the same week as the funeral.
“John, we need to cancel Hawaii,” I told him.
John didn’t even lower his newspaper. “Cancel? Those tickets were non-refundable, Edith. Plus, I’ve already booked my tee times.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “John, my mom just died.”
His expression didn’t change. “Look, I get it, but you can handle things here. Besides, I’m not good at this emotional stuff.”
I couldn’t believe it. Was he really prioritizing a vacation over supporting me during my mom’s funeral? It was as if I were seeing him clearly for the first time after 15 years of marriage.
Facing Grief Alone
The following week, John left for Hawaii, offering me a quick peck on the cheek as he rushed out the door. “Text me if you need anything,” he called out, like he could somehow help from 4,000 miles away.
I buried my mother on a rainy Thursday, surrounded by friends and family, but not my husband. Meanwhile, John was posting beachside Instagram photos with captions like “#ParadiseFound” and “#LivingMyBestLife.”
Sitting in our empty house that night, surrounded by untouched sympathy casseroles, something in me snapped. I realized I had spent years excusing John’s emotional absence, telling myself, “He’s just not good with feelings.”
But enough was enough.
The Plan
My friend Sarah is a realtor, and it took only one call to set my plan in motion.
“I want to list the house—and make sure the ad mentions that the Porsche comes with it,” I told her.
“The Porsche? John’s baby?” she gasped. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’ve never been more certain in my life.”
The next morning, I sat by the window, sipping coffee, as a steady stream of “potential buyers” arrived to inspect John’s beloved car. When John’s Uber pulled up, I braced myself for the confrontation.
The Consequences
John rushed through the door, his face bright red. “Edith! Why are there people looking at my car? Someone just asked about the leather seats!”
“Oh, that,” I said, taking another sip of coffee. “I’m selling the house. The car sweetens the deal, don’t you think?”
He gaped at me, sputtering, “You’re what? This is insane!”
“Maybe,” I replied calmly. “But you were on vacation while I buried my mother. I thought I’d start looking out for myself—just like you do.”
Realization hit him like a truck. “Is this a punishment? Did I do something wrong?”
I stood up, my voice finally firm. “You left me alone to grieve. Next time, it won’t be a fake listing, John.”
A Change in Course
John was a mess for the next hour, trying to shoo away buyers and pleading with me to reconsider. Eventually, I relented.
“Okay, fine. I won’t sell the house or the car,” I told him, and he sighed with relief. “But things are going to change. I needed you when my mom died, and you left me for a vacation. You need to start being a partner, not just a roommate who shares my bed.”
He looked ashamed and admitted, “I don’t know how to be what you need, but I love you, Edith, and I want to try.”
Baby Steps Forward
Since that day, things have been far from perfect, but John has started going to therapy twice a month. Last week, he even asked how I was feeling about Mom, and for once, he sat and listened without trying to fix it with money or distractions. It’s progress—baby steps, but steps nonetheless.
Sometimes, I think about what my mom would say about all this. I can almost hear her voice: “That’s my girl. Never let them see you sweat—just show them the ‘For Sale’ sign instead.”
She taught me that strength comes in many forms. Sometimes, it’s about pushing through pain, and sometimes, it’s about knowing when to push back.
