When my mom passed away, I expected my husband’s support, but he chose a vacation in Hawaii instead. Shocked, I navigated the funeral alone. When he returned, I had a lesson in store he’d never forget.
The call about my mom’s passing came at work, and I rushed home, shattered. John’s response was shockingly dismissive. “Do you want takeout tonight?” he offered, as if Thai food could mend a broken heart. When I mentioned canceling our Hawaii trip, he refused. “Those tickets are non-refundable,” he said, his golf reservations taking priority.
During the funeral, while I mourned, John posted carefree vacation shots, captioned #LivingMyBestLife. Alone in our house, surrounded by sympathy casseroles, something inside me snapped.
I called my friend Sarah, a realtor, and asked her to list our house—and John’s beloved Porsche—as “coming with the sale.” The open house the next morning drew crowds eager to inspect “John’s baby.” When he returned from Hawaii, he was horrified to find people hovering around his precious car. “Why are they here?” he demanded, and I calmly replied, “I’m selling the house. And the Porsche makes a nice perk, don’t you think?”
John panicked, trying to shoo away buyers, while I finally told him, “You’re just my husband, not family, right?” He quickly realized the damage he’d done, and for the first time, looked genuinely remorseful.
Things aren’t perfect now. John’s learning to support me, taking baby steps toward being a true partner. But he knows that if he pulls a stunt like this again, I won’t just put up a “For Sale” sign—I’ll mean it.
