I was sitting at my desk when my phone lit up with the doctor’s number.
Somehow, deep down, I already knew what I was about to hear. My stomach dropped before I even answered.
Mom was gone. Just like that. One moment, she was being treated for a mild lung infection—and the next, everything just stopped. It didn’t make sense. None of it did.
I don’t remember the drive home. One second, I was at my computer, the next I was standing at my front door, fumbling with the keys while tears clouded my vision. John’s car was already in the driveway.
Another one of his “work-from-home” days, no doubt. Usually code for him watching sports on mute while half-heartedly replying to emails.
“John?” My voice wavered as I stepped inside. “I need you.”
He showed up in the kitchen doorway, coffee in hand, a slight frown on his face like I’d just interrupted something important. “What’s going on? You look awful.”
I tried to speak, but the words got caught in my chest.
Instead, I just opened my arms. He hesitated, then gave me a stiff hug, like he was comforting someone else’s child.
“My mom,” I whispered. “She’s gone. She di.ed.”
He tensed for a second. “Oh. That’s… wow. I’m sorry, babe.”
Then he stepped back and said, “You want Thai tonight? From that place, you like?”
I nodded, barely processing his words. My mom-the woman who raised me alone, who worked herself to the bone for my future, who called every Sunday like clockwork—was gone.
The next morning, I woke up in a daze. My to-do list grew by the minute: calls to make, people to notify, funeral plans, and clearing out a house full of memories.
While trying to organize it all at the kitchen table, I remembered something else—our upcoming Hawaii trip.
“John, we’ll need to cancel the vacation,” I said, phone in hand. “The funeral will likely be next week.”
His face darkened behind the newspaper.
“Cancel Hawaii? Are you serious? Those flights were non-refundable. That’s thousands of dollars down the drain. I already booked my golf tee times.”
I stared at him, stunned. “My mother just di.ed.”
He neatly folded his paper, taking care to crease the edges. “Look, I get that this is hard for you. But funerals are for close family. I’m just your husband. No one there will miss me. Your relatives barely know me.”
It felt like he’d slapped me. “Just my husband?”
“You know what I meant,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact. “Besides, I’m terrible with grief stuff. You’ll handle it better without me around.”
And just like that, I saw John clearly—maybe for the first time in fifteen years.
The man who avoided emotion like the plague. The husband who always found a way to escape when things got uncomfortable.
The days that followed were a blur.
I managed funeral arrangements, handled relatives, and cried in silence when no one was looking.
John offered shallow gestures of support, suggesting I “watch a funny movie” or “get some fresh air.” Not once did he offer to stay.
On the day before Mom’s funeral, he kissed my cheek and said, “Text me if you need anything!” before boarding his flight to paradise.
While I was standing in the rain watching my mother lowered into the ground, John was uploading selfies on Instagram—cocktail in hand, hashtags like “#IslandVibes” and “#NoWorries” sprinkled across every post.
That night, surrounded by untouched casseroles and silence, something inside me broke.
I’d spent years excusing John’s behavior. Telling myself he “wasn’t a feelings guy” and “loved in his own way.” But now, all I saw was someone who chose palm trees over partnership.
I called my friend Sarah, who worked in real estate.
“You want to list your house? Tomorrow?” she asked, shocked.
“Yep. Online only. And add a bonus—his car’s included.”
“You mean the Porsche?” she gasped. “That car is his life!”
“Exactly,” I said flatly. “Let’s see what matters more to him.”
By the next morning, potential buyers were circling like sharks.
From my kitchen window, I watched strangers admire his convertible, peeking inside and taking pictures.
Then John’s Uber pulled up. He walked into pure chaos.
He slammed the door behind him, face flushed. “Edith! What the hell is going on? People are trying to buy my car!”
I calmly sipped my coffee. “Oh, I’m just selling the house. And the car adds a nice touch, don’t you think? Real curb appeal.”
His jaw dropped. “You’ve lost it. I’m calling Sarah right now!”
“Please do,” I said sweetly. “Tell her all about your amazing vacation while you’re at it.”
His expression shifted—confusion, then panic. “Wait… is this because I didn’t stay?”
I stood up. “I needed my husband, and you left me alone to bury my mother. You told me you weren’t family. I’m just returning the energy.”
He looked crushed. “This is punishment?”
“No, John. This is clarity.”
Buyers lingered, one older couple marveling at how perfect the Porsche would be for weekend drives. John looked ready to collapse.
Eventually, I told him the truth: I wasn’t actually selling anything. But if he ever pulled something like this again? The next sign on the lawn would be real.
He begged to make it right. I told him to start by being more than a roommate with benefits. I wanted support. Presence. Emotion.
He’s not perfect.
But now he goes to therapy. He asks how I’m doing. He listens. Last week, he even let himself cry when I talked about Mom.
It’s not easy, but we’re rebuilding—slowly, honestly, and finally together.
And somewhere, I know Mom’s smiling. Because if she taught me one thing, it’s this: never let heartbreak break you—just let it sharpen your spine.
