The sharp ring of my phone at work shattered the rhythm of the day like a hammer to glass. It was the doctor’s number. I didn’t need to pick it up to know what news awaited me. My stomach dropped, a cold pit opening inside that swallowed all my breath.

My mother was gone.

One moment she was battling a stubborn lung infection; the next, she had slipped away silently, without warning, without chance for goodbyes. Time seemed to dissolve around me. The familiar world blurred and darkened.

I don’t remember the drive home. I remember the sting of tears blurring my vision as I fumbled for my house keys. Jasper’s car was parked outside. He was there, probably “working from home,” which meant lying on the couch with ESPN muted and the illusion of productivity.

“Jasper?” My voice echoed through the silent house, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. “Jasper, I need you.”

He emerged from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, his face a mixture of mild irritation and distraction. “What’s wrong? You look terr!ble.”

I tried to speak, but my voice cracked, stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat. Instead, I opened my arms, begging wordlessly for comfort. He set down his mug with a sigh, patting me awkwardly on the back — a gesture so detached it felt almost like a stranger’s.

“My mom,” I whispered finally, voice breaking. “She’s… she died, Jasper. Mom died.”

For a brief flicker, his arms tightened around me — but just barely. “Oh. Wow. That’s… I’m sorry, honey.”

He pulled away, glancing at the kitchen counter. “Want me to order takeout tonight? Maybe that Thai place you like.”

I nodded, numb, barely hearing him. My mother — the woman who taught me to ride a bike, worked two jobs to send me to college after Dad left, called me every Sunday just to chat — was gone. And here he was, offering dinner as if I’d asked for a pizza.

The next morning was a cruel awakening. The to-do list was endless: notify relatives, arrange the funeral, sort through decades of my mother’s life packed in dusty boxes and yellowed photographs. The mundane tasks swallowed me whole. And then it h!t me — the vacation we had planned for Hawaii, a trip Jasper had booked months ago.

“Jasper,” I said, looking up from my phone with a trembling voice, “we’ll need to cancel Hawaii. The funeral’s probably next week, and—”

“Cancel?” Jasper lowered his newspaper, brow furrowing with something close to impatience. “Elanor, those tickets were non-refundable. We’d lose thousands. Plus, I already scheduled my tee times at the resort.”

My mouth went dry. “Jasper, my mother just died.”

He folded the paper with surgical precision, clearly trying to hide his irritation behind a mask of calm.

“Look, I get 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 h!t me like a physical blow. “Just your husband?”

“You know what I mean,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact as if my grief was an unwelcome disturbance. “Besides, someone should use the tickets. You can handle things here. You know I’m no good at emotional stuff.”

In that moment, I saw Jasper anew — not the man I’d loved and trusted for fifteen years, but a stranger who treated feelings like a pesky inconvenience. How had I never noticed before how his eyes glazed over when I spoke about my pa!n? How he buried emotions under sports games and business deals?

The following week was a haze of tears and endless phone calls. Jasper’s gestures of sympathy were mechanical — a pat on the shoulder here, a suggestion to take a sleeping pill there. “Maybe watch a comedy,” he said once, as if laughter could erase my mother’s absence.

Then, the day before the funeral, he left for Hawaii, planting a kiss on my cheek and a distracted, “Text me if you need anything.” As if thousands of miles could bridge a chasm of emotional neglect.

I stood alone in the rain at the funeral, clutching the casket that held the only mother I’d ever known. The pastor spoke of eternal life; Jasper posted sunset cocktails on Instagram. "#ParadiseFound," he captioned, his photos mocking my grief like a cruel joke.

That night, the house was a tomb, hollow and cold, filled with untouched casseroles and silence. I sat curled on the sofa, clutching a photo of Mom, my heart shattered.

I had spent years excusing Jasper’s emotional absence. “He’s just not a feelings person,” I told friends. “He shows love in his own way.”

But what ways were those? Expensive gifts that couldn’t mend broken conversations? Luxury trips that were escape routes from reality?

A call to my friend Sarah, a realtor, sparked a plan — a reckoning.

“You want me to what?” she laughed, disbelief tinting her voice.

“List our house. Online only. Open house tomorrow. And throw in the car.”

“His Porsche? Jasper’s pride and joy? Eddie, he’ll freak.”

“Exactly,” I said, steeling myself. “He loves that car more than me. More than us.”

“Are you sure? Grief… it makes people do crazy things.”

“I’ve never been surer. Can you set it up?”

Morning brought a parade of potential buyers circling the Porsche like vultures. I sipped my coffee calmly, watching Jasper’s Uber pull up, his face turning a furious shade of red.

“Elanor! Why are people pawing my car? Someone asked if the leather seats were original!”

“Oh, that?” I said with a smile. “I’m selling the house. The car’s a selling point — sweetens the deal.”

He sputtered, phone in hand. “Are you insane? I’ll get Sarah to take it down now.”

“Go ahead,” I said coolly. “Maybe you can tell her about your vacation. How was the beach? The water looked nice in your photos.”

Recognition dawned slowly on his face. “This… is punishment? Did I do something wrong?”

“What? I’m just doing what you would: looking out for number one.” I stood, anger rising. “After all, I’m just your wife. Not family, remember?”

Chaos erupted as Jasper scrambled to shoo buyers, begging me to reconsider. One elderly woman waxed poetic about weekend antiquing in a Porsche.

I let him stew until Sarah texted she’d run out of friends to send.

“Fine,” I relented. “No sale. Not the car, not the house.”

Relief washed over him. “Thank God. Elanor, I—”

I raised a hand. “But things have to change. I lost my mother. You couldn’t reschedule your vacation. I needed you, and you chose cocktails.”

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 a fake listing. And you can bet on your leather seats.”

He nodded, humbled, like a schoolboy caught che@ting. “What can I do?”

“Start acting like my husband, not a roommate who shares a bed. Mom’s gone, and I need real grief. Not dinners or jewelry.”

He frowned, jaw clenched. “I don’t know how.”

“But you’ll learn. You have to.”

It’s not perfect now. Jasper still battles emotions money can’t fix. But he goes to therapy. He asks how I’m coping. He listens when I share memories of Mom’s Sunday calls, laughs, and love.

Baby steps.

Sometimes I think of what Mom would say — her laughter, her teasing.

“That’s my girl,” she’d say. “Never let them see you sweat — just flash the ‘For Sale’ sign.”

She taught me strength comes in many forms: pushing through pa!n, and knowing when to fight back.