I thought my husband would be there for me when my mom passed away, but instead, he chose a vacation to Hawaii over my grief. Devastated, I faced the funeral alone. But when he returned, he walked into a situation he never expected—a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.
I was at work when the doctor’s number flashed on my phone, and somehow, I knew what was coming. My heart sank even before I answered.
Mom was gone. Just like that. One minute she was fighting a minor lung infection, and the next… nothing. My world stopped making sense.
I don’t remember much after that. One moment I was sitting in my cubicle, and the next I was home, fumbling with my keys, eyes blurred with tears. John’s car was in the driveway, another one of his “work-from-home” days, which usually meant ESPN muted in the background while he pretended to answer emails.
“John?” My voice echoed through the house. “I need you.”
He stepped into the kitchen, holding a coffee mug, looking mildly annoyed. “What’s wrong? You look terrible.”
I tried to speak, but the words got tangled in my throat. I reached out to him, desperate for comfort. He sighed and gave me a quick, awkward pat on the back, like he was consoling a distant acquaintance.
“My mom… she died, John. Mom’s gone.”
His grip tightened for a moment. “Oh, wow. That’s… I’m sorry.”
Then, just as quickly, he pulled away. “Do you want me to order takeout? Maybe Thai?”
I nodded, numb. The next day, reality hit hard. There was so much to handle—planning the funeral, notifying family, and dealing with a lifetime of memories. As I sat at the kitchen table, buried in lists, I remembered our planned vacation.
“John, we’ll need to cancel Hawaii,” I said, looking up from my phone. “The funeral will probably be next week, and—”
“Cancel?” He lowered his newspaper, frowning. “Edith, those tickets were non-refundable. We’d lose a lot of money. Besides, I’ve already booked my golf games.”
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