He Chose a Vacation Over My Mom’s Funeral – But What He Came Home to Left Him Frozen
My Husband Went on Vacation Instead of Helping Me with My Mom’s Funeral – His Blood Froze When He Returned
When my mom passed away, I expected my husband to be there for me, but he prioritized a Hawaii vacation over my sorrow! Devastated and shocked, I attended the funeral by myself. But I gave him a lesson he would never forget, and when he came back, it was a sight he never saw coming.
My phone popped up with the doctor’s number while I was at work, and for some reason, I just knew. My stomach began to plummet even before I lifted.
Mom had vanished. In that very moment. She was treating a mild lung infection one minute, and next… nothing made sense.
I don’t recall taking a car home. I went from being at my cubicle to fumbling with my house keys while crying so hard that my vision became fuzzy. There was John’s car in the driveway.
It must have been just another “work from home” day for him; that generally meant muting the TV and watching ESPN while feigning to respond to emails.
“John?” Our house reverberated with my voice. “John, I need you.”
With a coffee mug in hand, he emerged from the kitchen doorway, appearing mildly irritated at being disturbed. “What’s not right? You appear awful.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words got caught in between my throat and my heart. Rather, I simply shook my head and extended my arms in a childlike manner. With a sigh, he put down his cup and awkwardly patted me on the back, as if he were soothing the child of a stranger.
“My mom,” I was able to say at last. “John, she passed away. Mom passed away.”
For a split second, his arms grew tense. “Oh. Whoa. That is… I apologize, sweetie.”
He retreated. Would you like me to get takeout for supper? Perhaps from that Thai restaurant you enjoy?”
I numbly nodded, not actually listening to him. Mom had vanished. After Dad departed, the woman who had taught me how to ride a bike, worked two jobs to pay for college, and still called me every Sunday just to talk was no longer with me.
Reality set in early the following morning. There was tons to get done! I had to organize the funeral, let friends and relatives know, and go through a lifetime’s worth of possessions. I was thinking about our approaching vacation as I sat at the kitchen table creating lists.
We’ll have to postpone Hawaii, John, I murmured as I looked up from my phone. “The funeral will probably be next week, and—”
“Cancel?” With a frown, John lowered his newspaper. “Edith, there was no refund for those tickets. We would suffer thousands of losses. In addition, I have my tee times at the resort already booked.”
I looked at him, certain that I had misheard. “John, my mother just died.”
With deliberate movements, he folded the paper as though attempting to control his annoyance.
“Look, I understand that you’re upset, but family attends funerals. I am only your spouse; nobody will be sad to see me there. Even yet, your cousins hardly know me.”
The words struck me like a blow to the body. “Just my husband?”
“You know what I mean.” He was immediately very concerned in straightening his tie, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. In addition, someone ought to utilize the tickets. You understand that I’m not very good at this emotional stuff, so you can manage things here.”
In our fifteen years of marriage, I felt as though I was meeting John for the first time.
When I talked about my sentiments, his eyes would always glaze over. How had I missed that? The way he regarded feelings like annoying diversions from his meticulously planned life?
The following week was a flurry of paperwork and emotions.
Every now and again when he caught me crying, John would touch my shoulder uncomfortably and make helpful recommendations like, “Maybe you should take a sleeping pill,” or, “Have you tried watching a comedy?”
Leaving with a brief peck on my cheek and a “Text me if you need anything!” the day before the funeral, he headed for Hawaii.
As though he could provide assistance from 4,000 miles away. Like he would ever want to.
On a wet Thursday, I buried my mother. John was posting pictures of sunset drinks on Instagram stories with small umbrella garnishes while I was listening to the pastor preach about eternal life. “#ParadiseFound,” he wrote as the caption for one. “#LivingMyBestLife.”
Something inside me broke that night as I sat alone in our empty house surrounded by condolence casseroles I couldn’t force myself to eat.
I had been providing John with emotional constipation for fifteen years. “He’s simply not sentimental,” I would confide to my friends. “He shows his love in other ways.”
However, precisely which ways were those? Acquiring costly presents in order to evade genuine dialogues? Organizing lavish getaways that he could take when things got messy at home?
Realtor Sarah was a friend of mine. I only needed to make one call to start my plan.
“You want me to what?” she questioned, chuckling wildly.
“Make a list of our home. Tomorrow is the open house; exclusively online. And don’t forget to emphasize that the car is included.”
“The convertible? John’s child? Eddie is going to flip! His pride and delight is that automobile.”
“That’s the concept,” I answered. “That automobile is his greatest love. Definitely more than I am.”
Are you certain of this? Sadness drives people to act irrationally.”
Never in my life have I felt more certain about anything. Are you capable of it?”
As planned, a steady stream of “potential buyers” began to show up early the following morning. As I sipped coffee at the kitchen table, I saw through the glass as they circled John’s priceless Porsche in a manner like to vultures.
John’s Uber arrived, and I couldn’t resist grinning. It’s time to play.
With a scarlet face like a tomato, John rushed through the door. “Edith! What makes folks scrubbing at my car? “A gentleman inquired about the authenticity of the leather seats.”
I took another drink of coffee, slowly. “Oh, I see. I am going to sell the house. And don’t you think the car is a terrific selling point? Makes the offer really sweet.”
“Selling the—” With a gasp, he pulled out his phone. “Are you crazy? I’ll give Sarah a call and remove this listing right away.”
“Go ahead,” I responded in a gentle tone. She would definitely enjoy hearing from you. While you’re at it, perhaps you could tell her about your vacation. What was the beach like? In your pictures, the sea appeared beautiful.”
With a slowly emerging comprehension, he gazed at me. “Is this a form of punishment of any kind? Was there something I did incorrectly?
“What are you trying to say? I’m just keeping an eye out for number one, just as you would.” I got to my feet and at last let some of my rage come out. “I’m just your wife, after all. Not related, do you recall?”
It was mayhem for the next hour. John hurried about, pleading with me to think twice while also attempting to scare off prospective customers. A particularly persistent couple were an older couple, the wife of whom would not stop talking about how the Porsche would be ideal for her “weekend antiquing.”
I was afraid John was going to weep. I gave him space to stew until Sarah texted me, telling me she was out of friends to invite over.
I said, “Okay, fine,” to John. “You’re accurate. The house won’t be sold.” I gave a dramatic pause. “Or the car.”
John sighed in calmness. “Grateful to God. Edith, I would—”
I extended a hand. But John, things are about to change. You couldn’t even be bothered to rearrange a vacation, and I lost my mother. You were too preoccupied sharing selfies from the beach to notice that I needed my spouse.”
He may have looked embarrassed. “I apologize. I didn’t consider—”
“No, you didn’t. However, you will get started. Because it won’t be a phony listing the next time you pull something similar. You may put your original leather seats to the test on that one.
Appearing like a reprimanded schoolboy, he nodded. “What can I do to make it right?”
“Instead of treating me like a roommate who occasionally shares my bed, you might start by acting like a partner. Oh John, my mom’s gone. I will need some time to grieve for her because she was the only parent I had left. True grief, not the kind that can be cheered up with a new ring or elaborate meal.”
“I…” His jaw tightened as his brows furrowed into a grimace. “I don’t know how to be the man you need me to be, Edith, but I love you and I want to try.”
Nothing is flawless right now. John continues to experience emotional difficulties that his credit card cannot solve. However, he attends therapy twice a month, and he inquired about my feelings toward Mom last week.
While I spoke about how much I missed her Sunday calls and how occasionally I still reach for the phone to tell her something hilarious before realizing I can’t, he sat and listened. He also revealed a little bit about his personal feelings.
small steps.
I sometimes imagine what Mom would say about this whole thing. She’s almost laughing, and I can see her shake her head.
“That’s my girl,” she would utter. “Never let them see you sweat — just show ’em the ‘For Sale’ sign instead.”
She had shown me that there are several types of strength. It’s important to know when to give up and when to persevere through discomfort.
