The call from the doctor confirmed my worst fear: my mother was gone. I drove home in a blur of tears, desperate for the comfort of my husband, John. His reaction was colder than I could have imagined. He offered an awkward pat on the back and a suggestion for Thai takeout. The real blow came the next morning when I mentioned we would need to postpone our vacation to Hawaii for her funeral. He refused, citing the cost of the non-refundable tickets and his precious pre-booked tee times. He told me that funerals were for family, and as “just her husband,” his presence wasn’t necessary.
I buried my mother alone on a rainy Thursday. While I listened to the pastor’s words, John was posting pictures of sunset drinks on a beach, hashtagging his paradise. Sitting in our silent house that night, surrounded by uneaten casseroles, a clarity I had never felt before washed over me. For fifteen years, I had excused his emotional absence. Now, in my deepest moment of need, he had chosen a golf resort over me. I decided to show him exactly how it felt to lose something you love.
I called a realtor friend and had her list our house—and his prized Porsche—for an online-only open house. The next morning, a stream of eager buyers descended on our property, circling his car like sharks. He returned from his trip to this chaotic scene, furious and confused. I calmly explained that I was just looking out for myself, the same way he did in Hawaii. The panic on his face was the first real emotion I had seen from him in weeks.
I eventually called off the sale, but the lesson was learned. I told him our marriage was on the line and things had to change, starting with him learning how to be a real partner. It’s been a slow journey. He’s started therapy and is finally trying to learn the language of emotions. He’s not perfect, but he’s trying. Sometimes, you have to create an earthquake to make someone finally wake up and see the cracks in the foundation.
