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The Call of the Void in Eyes That No Longer Saw Me
I was at my desk when my phone lit up. The doctor’s name. And somehow, deep inside, I knew.
Mom was gone. Just like that. Without warning. Without ceremony. The world froze around me, the office noises becoming distant, foreign.
I don’t remember the journey home. One moment I was in my cubicle, and the next, I was fumbling for my keys, my vision blurred with tears. Jean’s car was in the driveway. Another one of his “work from home” days, which usually meant watching soccer matches on mute while pretending to answer emails.
“Jean?” My voice echoed through our house. “Jean, I need you.”
He appeared in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, looking slightly annoyed at being disturbed. “What’s wrong? You look terrible.”
I tried to speak, but the words remained stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat. Instead, I held out my arms like a child. He put down his mug with a sigh and gave me an awkward pat on the back.
“My mother,” I finally managed to say. “She’s… she’s dead, Jean. Mom is gone.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s… I’m sorry, honey.”
He stepped back. “Do you want me to order takeout tonight? Maybe from that Thai place you like?”
The Silence of Accumulating Absences
The next morning, reality was beginning to sink in. There was so much to do! Preparing the funeral, notifying family and friends, sorting through a lifetime of belongings.
“Jean, we’ll need to cancel our Hawaii trip,” I said. “The funeral will probably be next week, and—”
“Cancel?” Jean interrupted. “Edith, those tickets are non-refundable. We’d lose thousands of euros. And I’ve already booked my golf slots at the resort.”
I stared at him, certain I had misheard. “Jean, my mother just died.”
“Look, I know you’re upset, but funerals are for family. I’m just your husband—nobody will notice if I’m not there.”
Those words hit me like a physical blow. “‘Just’ your husband?”
“You know what I mean.” He avoided my gaze, suddenly very busy adjusting his tie. “Besides, someone should use those tickets. You can handle things here, and you know I’m not good with all this… emotional stuff.”
How had I never noticed the way his eyes glazed over when I talked about my feelings? How he treated emotions like inconvenient interruptions to his carefully planned life?
The following week unfolded in a blur of tears and logistics.
Jean would occasionally awkwardly pat my shoulder when he found me crying, offering helpful suggestions like “Maybe you should take a sleeping pill” or “Have you tried watching a comedy?”
The day before the funeral, he left for Hawaii with a quick kiss on my cheek and a “Text me if you need anything!”
I buried my mother on a rainy Thursday. Jean was posting Instagram stories of sunset cocktails with little umbrella decorations. “#ParadiseFound,” he had captioned one of them. “#MyBestLife” while I listened to the pastor talk about eternal life.
The Stirring of an Awakening Anger
Something broke inside me.
Fifteen years of making excuses for Jean’s emotional constipation. “He’s just not very demonstrative,” I would tell my friends. “He shows his love differently.”
By planning elaborate vacations where he could escape when life got complicated?
Sarah, my realtor friend. One call to set my plan in motion.
“You want me to what?” she asked.
“Put our house up for sale. Online listings only, viewings tomorrow. And make sure to mention the car is included.”
“The convertible? Jean’s baby? Edith, he’s going to flip out! That car is his pride and joy.”
“That’s the idea,” I replied.
“He loves that car more than anything. More than me, that’s for sure.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Can you do it?”
Broken Mirrors Sometimes Reveal Hidden Truths
The next morning, as planned, a steady stream of “potential buyers” began to arrive.
When Jean’s Uber pulled up, I couldn’t help but smile. It was showtime.
“Edith! Why are there people fiddling with my car? Some guy just asked me if the leather seats were original!”
“Oh, that. I’m selling the house. And the car makes an excellent selling point, don’t you think?”
“Selling the—” He screamed. “Are you insane? I’m calling Sarah and having this listing removed immediately!”
“Go ahead,” I said softly. “I’m sure she’d be delighted to hear from you. Perhaps you can tell her about your vacation while you’re at it. How was the beach? The water looked beautiful in your photos.”
He stared at me: “Is this… is this some kind of punishment? Did I do something wrong?”
“How so? I’m just doing what you would do: putting myself first.”
“After all, I’m just your wife. Not family, remember?”
The hour that followed was chaotic.
I thought Jean might actually cry. I let him stew until Sarah texted that she had no more friends to send over.
“Alright,” I said. “You’re right. I won’t sell the house.” I paused for effect. “Or the car.”
“Thank God. Edith, I—”
I held up my hand. “But things are going to change, Jean. I lost my mother, and you couldn’t even be bothered to modify a vacation. I needed my husband, and you were too busy posting beach selfies to care.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t think. But you’re going to learn. Because the next time you pull something like this, it won’t be a fake listing. And you can bet your original leather seats on that.”
The Fragile Light of a Budding Understanding
“What can I do to be better?”
“You can start by acting like a partner instead of a roommate who occasionally shares my bed. My mother is gone, Jean. She was the only parent I had left, and I’ll need time to grieve. Real grieving, not the kind you can erase with a fancy dinner or a new piece of jewelry.”
“I don’t know how to be the man you need, Edith, but I love you and I want to try.”
Things aren’t ideal now. Jean still struggles with emotions that can’t be changed with his credit card. But he goes to therapy twice a month, and last week, he actually asked me how I was feeling about Mom.
He sat and listened while I talked about how much I missed her Sunday calls, and how sometimes I still reach for the phone to tell her something funny before remembering that I can’t anymore.
Small steps.