I expected my husband’s support when my mom passed away, but he picked a Hawaii trip over my pain. Shocked and crushed, I handled the funeral by myself. When he got back, he walked into a surprise he never expected as I gave him a lesson he’d never forget.
I was at my desk when my phone showed the doctor’s number and my gut twisted before I answered.
Mom was gone. Just like that. One moment she was battling a small lung issue, the next… everything stopped making sense.
I don’t recall the drive home. One second I was in my cubicle, the next I was fumbling with keys at the door, eyes stinging. Alar’s car sat in the driveway.
He must have taken another “work from home” day, which usually meant sports on mute while he skimmed emails.
“Alar?” My voice bounced through the house. “Alar, I need you.”
He stepped into the kitchen doorway, coffee in hand, looking mildly irritated at the interruption. “What’s wrong? You look awful.”
I tried to speak, but the words jammed somewhere between my chest and my mouth. I just shook my head and opened my arms like a kid. He set the mug down with a sigh and gave me a stiff pat on the back, like he was consoling a stranger’s child.
“My mom,” I finally got out. “She’s… she died, Alar. Mom died.”
His arms tightened for a split second. “Oh. Wow. That’s… I’m sorry, honey.”
He stepped back. “Want me to order takeout tonight? Maybe from that Thai spot you like?”
I nodded blankly, not really hearing. Mom was gone. The woman who taught me to ride a bike, who worked two jobs to get me through college after Dad left, who still rang every Sunday just to talk… gone.
The next morning, reality hit. So much to do—I had to arrange the funeral, call relatives, sort through a lifetime of things. I was jotting lists at the kitchen table when I remembered our trip.
“Alar, we’ll have to cancel Hawaii,” I said, glancing up from my phone. “The funeral will likely be next week, and—”
“Cancel?” Alar lowered his newspaper, brow creased. “Tamsin, those tickets were non-refundable. We’d lose thousands. Plus, I already booked my tee times at the resort.”
I stared, certain I’d misheard. “Alar, my mother just died.”
He folded the paper neatly, like he was holding back annoyance.
“Look, I know you’re upset, but funerals are for family. I’m just your husband—no one will miss me there. Your cousins barely know me anyway.”
The words landed like a slap. “Just your husband?”
“You know what I mean.” He avoided my eyes, suddenly busy fixing his tie. “Besides, someone should use the tickets. You can manage here, and you know I’m no good at all this… emotional stuff.”
I felt like I was seeing Alar clearly for the first time in our fifteen years together.
How had I missed the way his eyes glazed when I shared feelings? The way he treated emotions like annoying pop-ups in his tidy schedule?
The next week blurred with tears and tasks.
Alar would occasionally pat my shoulder when he caught me crying, offering gems like, “Maybe take a sleeping pill” or “Have you tried a comedy?”
The day before the funeral, he left for Hawaii with a quick cheek peck and a “Text if you need anything!”
As if he could help from 4,000 miles away. As if he’d even try.
I buried my mother on a rainy Thursday. While the pastor spoke of eternal life, Alar posted Instagram stories of sunset drinks with tiny umbrellas. “#ParadiseFound,” one read. “#LivingMyBestLife.”
Sitting alone in our quiet house that night, surrounded by sympathy casseroles I couldn’t touch, something in me broke.
I’d spent fifteen years excusing Alar’s emotional shutdown. “He’s just not a feelings guy,” I’d tell friends. “He shows love in other ways.”
But what ways? Flashy gifts to dodge real talks? Lavish trips he could flee to when life got messy?
My friend Elspeth was a realtor. One call set my plan rolling.
“You want me to what?” she asked, laughing in shock.
“List our house. Online only, open house tomorrow. Mention the car comes with it.”
“The convertible? Alar’s baby? Tamsin, he’ll lose it! That car is his pride and joy.”
“That’s the point,” I said. “He loves that car more than anything. More than me, for sure.”
“Are you sure? Grief makes people do wild things…”
“I’ve never been surer. Can you do it?”
Next morning, right on cue, a steady flow of “buyers” arrived. I sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, watching through the window as they circled Alar’s precious Porsche like sharks.
When Alar’s Uber pulled up, I couldn’t help smiling. Showtime.
Alar burst through the door, face flushed. “Tamsin! Why are people touching my car? Some guy just asked if the leather seats were original!”
I took a slow sip of coffee. “Oh, that. I’m selling the house. The car’s a nice bonus, don’t you think? Really seals the deal.”
“Selling the—” He choked, yanking out his phone. “Are you out of your mind? I’ll call Elspeth and kill this listing now!”
“Go ahead,” I said sweetly. “She’d love to hear from you. Maybe tell her about your vacation. The beach looked great in your pics.”
He stared, realization creeping across his face. “This… is this punishment? Did I do something wrong?”
“What do you mean? I’m just doing what you’d do: looking out for number one.” I stood, letting anger surface. “After all, I’m just your wife. Not family, remember?”
The next hour was chaos. Alar dashed around, shooing buyers while pleading with me to rethink. One older couple wouldn’t quit—the wife raved about how the Porsche would be perfect for “weekend antiquing.”
I thought Alar might cry. I let him sweat until Elspeth texted she was out of friends to send.
“Okay, fine,” I told Alar. “You’re right. I won’t sell the house.” I paused. “Or the car.”
Alar sagged in relief. “Thank God. Tamsin, I—”
I raised a hand. “But things change now, Alar. I lost my mother, and you couldn’t reschedule a vacation. I needed my husband, and you were too busy posting selfies to care.”
He looked ashamed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t. But you will. Next time you pull this, it won’t be fake. And you can bet your original leather seats on that.”
He nodded, looking like a scolded kid. “What can I do to fix it?”
“Start acting like a partner, not a roommate who sometimes shares my bed. Mom’s gone, Alar. She was my only parent left, and I need time to grieve. Real grief, not the kind you fix with dinner or jewelry.”
“I…” His brows knit, jaw tight. “I don’t know how to be the man you need, Tamsin, but I love you and I want to try.”
Things aren’t perfect now. Alar still struggles with feelings that can’t be bought off. But he sees a therapist twice a month, and last week he actually asked how I felt about Mom.
He listened while I talked about missing her Sunday calls, how I still reach for the phone to share something funny before remembering I can’t. He even shared a bit about his own feelings.
Small steps.
Sometimes I imagine what Mom would say. I can almost hear her laugh, see her shaking her head.
“That’s my girl,” she’d say. “Never let them see you sweat—just show ’em the ‘For Sale’ sign instead.”
She taught me strength comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s pushing through pain, sometimes it’s pushing back.