The Night My Husband Threw a Party While I Was Sick and Expected Me to Clean — His Unforgettable Wake-Up Call

My Husband Threw a Pizza Party for His Friends When I Was Sick and Expected Me to Clean Up — He Soon Learned His Lesson

Her spouse hosted a pizza party for his buddies and expected Sandra to clean up afterward when she fell ill with the flu. Rather than taking the necessary rest, she had to outwit him. Tom quickly picked up a lesson that will stick with him forever.

All right, fasten your seatbelts! Hello, Sandra here. I’m a nice housewife from the neighborhood with a few stories to share. You know how they say that a person’s genuine nature is revealed at trying times?

Let me tell you, this past week was quite the experience, and it truly demonstrated to me the true nature of my dear husband, Tom.

We have always had a positive relationship. We share household duties, communicate (usually), and show each other respect in general.

Thus, I assumed Tom would handle things while I assumed the character of the “feverish hermit” in the guest room when the flu struck me like a freight train. That’s what partners do, after all.

False. But allow me to establish the scenario before I vent all of my resentment. The doorbell ringed as I was hacking up a lung, cocooned in a cocoon of blankets.

My heart begins to fall like a stone. Loud voices and laughter erupt throughout the house. My estimate? Tom’s amazing buddies, showing up for us at the most inconvenient moment imaginable.

Folks, this is when the real fun starts.

An hour passed slowly, with loud celebrations emanating from the bedroom every minute. My stomach rumbled in protest as the enticing smell of pizza filled the air.

I could hear Tom’s thunderous laughter floating through the fog of my sickness. At last, a simmering annoyance and my curiosity overcame each other.

I shrugged into my hot pajamas and walked to the bedroom door, covered in a warm blanket.

What greeted me looked like something out of a nightmare college party.

Beside empty pizza boxes and piled-high beer cans, they were lying spread out on OUR BED, you know, the one with the pretty cream upholstery Tom vowed he would never allow anyone to eat on.

Tom raised his head and noticed me. But I got a scowl instead of the expected sheepish smile. “Hey,” he began, his irritation seeping through his voice, “why are you out of bed?”

That’s it, then. My head was pounding, my body hurt, and now my spouse was behaving like I was the one bothering him? This was hardly the encouraging spouse I had assumed I had.

My jaw became clinched. “With all this racket, I can’t exactly rest,” I mumbled, my voice feeble but tinged with annoyance. “And why are you guys using OUR BEDROOM as a party zone?”

Tom made the motion of rolling his eyes, which generally made me shudder (not in a good way).

“Baby, it’s only for tonight. He growled, using a pet moniker that felt suddenly patronizing, “Don’t be so DRAMATIC.” “You could definitely even START CLEANING UP while you’re up! There’s not much room left here.”

How daring of them all! I was a sick woman who was having trouble standing, and he expected me to tidy up after his thoughtless get-together? My eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sick, Tom,” I said. “The least you could do is show some compassion and let me rest.”

An emotional, tearful woman | Source: Pexels

A sarcastic expression appeared on Tom’s face, and his tone became icy. “Avoid playing the’sick’ card against me. This flu is merely mild. You’re not in danger of dying. Tidy up a little. You’re capable of handling it.” Then, he completely ignored me and turned back to his pals and the noisy TV.

I stood there for a minute, dumbfounded and furious, the weight of his apathy crushing me. However, what’s the deal? The narrative did not finish here. My spouse was not going to treat me like a GLORIFIED MAID while he went out to parties.

No, master. It was time to send for the mounted troops.

My eyes clouded by tears, I staggered back to the guest room. This was not the life partner I had chosen. This man was unfamiliar to me; he had put his friends and pizza before my health. I wiped away another wave of tears and reached for my phone.

Tom’s strong mother, Mrs. Thompson, was the only person who could handle this scenario. Her glare had the power to curdle milk, and even mature men felt reminded of their childhood transgressions when they were around her.

“Hello, Mrs. Thompson?” I stated. “This is Sandra. I, well, I require your assistance. With a voice trembling with fury and wrath, I narrated the entire story.

On the other end, there was silence. A deep laugh then echoed over the phone. When Mrs. Thompson finally spoke, it was with a steely resolve that sent shivers down my spine—this time in a good way. “Don’t you worry, honey,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

After sixty minutes, the doorbell rang. Peeking through the door of the guest room, I felt a tiny flicker of optimism growing within of me. With her arms crossed and a gaze that could melt glaciers, Mrs. Thompson stood there. The festivities came to an abrupt stop as soon as the door opened.

Under the kitchen light, Tom and his friends looked like cockroaches, but instead of being in sweatpants, they were holding half-eaten bags of pizza and chips.

Mrs. Thompson bellowed, “THOMAS,” her voice resonating throughout the flat. “What in the world? Are you sure you’re doing this?”

There was complete silence in the room. With frozen pizza crusts halfway to their mouths, Tom’s friends appeared as though they had witnessed a ghostly sighting.

With a scathing glance, she interrupted Tom as he stammered forth an explanation, bless his clumsy heart. This was so much fun, oh boy.

“A celebration in the midst of your wife’s bed sickness? Not less, in the bedroom? This is totally inappropriate, Thomas.” There was no space for debate when her voice reverberated throughout the flat.

She turned to face me as her look softened. “Sandra, please return to your bed. I will manage this minor… circumstance.”

A flicker of amusement flared in mine, and there was a menacing glint in hers. These males were about to receive a severe education (maybe along with a hard lesson on the value of honoring wives).

I couldn’t resist taking a little revenge as I walked by Tom. I leaned down, smiled sweetly, and said, “Good luck, champ!” His expression of sheer panic, in contrast to his friends’ wide-eyed fright, was nearly enough to cure me of my fever. Nearly.

Mrs. Thompson made a knife-like sound as she cleared her throat. “All right, you guys,” she said. “Let’s talk about some basic principles of human decency… shall we?”

It was starting to become very wonderful, oh boy. With a naughty look on my face, I retreated into bed. It was going to be an epic tale for the ages, this evening.

Mrs. Thompson turned our apartment like a boot camp for the next three days. Without their arrogant smiles, Tom and his friends scuttled like ants on a scorching pavement.

Cleaning tasks included mopping floors, cleaning bathrooms, and tackling laundry. Everything was observed by Mrs. Thompson, who gave commands with the sternness of a drill sergeant.

In the meantime, I was perched on the living room couch like a queen, with an endless supply of tea on one armrest and a box of tissues on the other.

Bless her heart, Mrs. Thompson even reconciled herself to the remaining pizza, describing it as a “source of necessary carbohydrates for a recovering patient” (clearly aimed at Tom, of course).

The house was an unsettling silence interspersed with a whirlwind of activity and cleaning supplies. Tom’s friends avoided looking at me; a strong hint of sheepishness had replaced their previous raucous behavior.

Even Tom shuffled around, a ghost of the person he usually was. The man who had mocked my “illness” appeared to have taken a kick to the face.

It seems that Mrs. Thompson’s strict parenting style had a genuine talent for transforming responsible adults into repentant kids.

At last, during an especially taxing window-washing session, Mrs. Thompson clapped her hands, signaling the cleaning crew to come on. “That should be enough for now,” she declared.

“But keep in mind, young man,” she continued, giving Tom a stern look, “this is only the beginning.” We need to talk a lot about how important respect and communication are in a marriage.”

Tom swallowed, his Adam’s apple twitching uneasily. This was by no means over. As a matter of fact, I sensed that the best was yet to come. Perhaps I ought to get a second box of tissues—just in case.

The place looked like it should have been in a magazine by the time the last sniffle went away and I had my energy back. Perfect. Shiny. Tom, however, appeared to be a schoolboy who had recently learnt obedience.

He was all over me, making excuses after excuses and getting me anything I needed—and even things I didn’t even realize I wanted.

He said, “Sandra, I am so, so sorry,” for the hundredth time. “My actions cannot be justified. You and I were both unwell. His face flushed with guilt, he trailed off.

This was no longer the haughty Tom who had written off my condition as a small inconvenience. Tom looked remorseful, obviously having received the message. Furthermore, what do you know? It felt like a heartfelt apology.

Mrs. Thompson gave Tom a final, dying glance as she packed her pocketbook and prepared to leave after her three-day terror reign.

“Remember, Thomas,” she whispered, warning with a tinge of humor thrown in, “a happy wife means a happy life.” Please never forget it.

With a swallow that could only be described as sheer dread, Tom’s eyes widened. To put it mildly, he did not forget the lesson.

Mrs. Thompson hugged me, a comforting touch that said so much. Whispering, “You take care of yourself, honey,” “And if that knucklehead ever steps out of line again, you know who to call.” With a playful twinkle in her eye, she winked.

She then swept out the door, bringing with her a fresh sense of calm. Beside me, sheepishly shuffling, Tom finally said something. “So, what are your plans for tonight? Perhaps we should get takeout? Your most preferred location?”

My expression softened into a smile. With a lighthearted sparkle in my eyes, I stated, “Actually, I was thinking we could try that new couples’ cooking class I saw advertised.” You know, the one that teaches communication and teamwork in the kitchen?”

Tom’s eyes grew wide once more, but this time, something else flickered in them—possibly hope? Perhaps a suggestion of an accepted challenge?

That’s how, people, I went from having the sick to having a complete marital makeover. Furthermore, I can assure you that a little cooperation in the kitchen never damaged anyone. Well, maybe except for Tom’s ego. Well, that’s a tale for another time!