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When my phone rang that afternoon, I didn’t need to see the screen to know. It was the doctor. I felt it in my chest—an instinct, a sharp knowing. The kind that steals your breath before you even answer.
“Mrs. Carrow,” the voice said softly. “I’m so sorry. Your mother, Verna... she’s gone.”
Verna had gone into the hospital with what they thought was a minor lung infection. Nothing serious, they said. A precautionary stay. But something went wrong—fast. One moment she was lucid, the next confused, then... gone.
I don’t remember the drive home. One moment I was at my office desk, the next I was fumbling with my keys, tears clouding my vision, my knees threatening to give out.
Theron’s car was in the driveway. Of course it was. Another “work from home” day, which for him usually meant muted football and a laptop opened just enough to pretend he was busy.
I pushed open the door. “Theron?” My voice cracked. “I need you.”
He appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding his coffee like I had interrupted a sacred ritual. “What’s wrong? You look awful.”
I tried to speak, but grief had caught in my throat like a shard of glass. I reached for him instinctively—my husband, my person. He offered a limp pat on my back, as if comforting a coworker he barely knew.
“My mom,” I finally managed. “She died.”
His arms tightened briefly, just enough to register human contact. “Oh. Wow. That’s... sorry, honey.”
Then, he pulled back. “Want Thai tonight? That place you like?”
I blinked at him, hollow. My mother—the woman who taught me to ride a bike, who worked nights to help me pay for college, who still called me every Sunday like clockwork—was gone. And this man I had built a life with was offering pad thai as consolation.
The next morning, I sat at the kitchen table with a funeral to plan and a list a mile long. My coffee had gone cold. That’s when I remembered the Hawaii trip. A long-planned vacation. A dream escape.
“Theron,” I said, looking up from my phone. “We need to cancel Hawaii. The funeral’s likely next week.”
He glanced up from his paper, frowning. “Cancel? Elara, the tickets are non-refundable. We’ll lose a fortune. And I’ve already booked tee times.”
I stared at him. “Theron. My. Mother. Died.”
“I know, I know,” he said, folding his paper carefully, like I was being unreasonable. “But it’s not like anyone expects me to be there. I’m just your husband. Your cousins barely even know me.”
"Just my husband?” I echoed.
“You get it,” he continued, adjusting his tie. “Someone should use the tickets. And you’re better at dealing with emotions. I’d only get in the way.”
That was the moment it clicked. All the times I’d told myself he loved differently. That he just wasn’t “a feelings guy.” The way he ducked out of hard conversations, handled pain like it was a spreadsheet that needed reorganizing.
Over the next few days, I did everything. Called relatives. Arranged the service. Cried into my pillow while Theron offered tips like, “Try a sleeping pill,” or “Put on something funny.” He packed his bags with the efficiency of a man escaping inconvenience.
The morning of the funeral, he kissed my cheek. “Text me if you need me!” he chirped, boarding a plane bound for paradise.
That Thursday, under gray skies and a steady drizzle, I buried my mother.
As the pastor spoke of eternal peace, Theron uploaded beach selfies with captions like #IslandVibes and #BestLife.
That night, surrounded by untouched casserole dishes and silence, something shifted in me. For fifteen years, I’d let him skate by. “He shows love in different ways,” I told friends. “He’s just not expressive.”
But maybe it wasn’t that he loved differently.
Maybe he just didn’t love me well.
So I Made a Plan
Livia, my realtor friend, picked up on the first ring.
“I need a favor,” I said. “List the house. Open house tomorrow. Mention the Porsche comes with it.”
She gasped. “Theron’s convertible? Elara, that car is his baby.”
“Exactly.”
“Elara, grief does weird things. Are you sure?”
I had never been more sure.
The next morning, “buyers” arrived promptly. I sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee while they admired the crown jewel of our garage. One woman leaned into the leather seats and murmured, “Perfect for weekend drives.”
Then the door slammed. Showtime.
Theron stormed in, red-faced and sputtering. “Elara! What is going on? Why is my car being touched?! Someone asked if it was original leather!”
I smiled. “Yes. That. I’m selling the house. Car included. Thought it’d be a nice touch.”
“You’re selling the—?” He fumbled with his phone. “I’ll call Livia! She’ll cancel this madness!”
“Go ahead,” I said evenly. “Maybe tell her about your Hawaiian adventure. I loved your ‘#Grateful’ caption.”
His face changed. “Is this payback?”
“No,” I said, standing. “It’s perspective. You taught me how to put myself first. You know, like you did when I buried my only parent alone.”
He ran his hands through his hair, panicked. “Please, Elara, I made a mistake. How can I fix this?”
“Start by acting like a partner. Not a roommate with joint tax returns. My mom’s gone, Theron. I need to grieve. Not be distracted by spa packages and ‘cheer up’ suggestions.”
He swallowed hard. “I want to be better. I’ll try.”
And He Has—A Little
Theron didn’t pack his bags and leave. He stayed. He started therapy. Twice a month, like clockwork. Last week, he even asked me what I missed most about Verna.
I told him the Sunday calls. The ones where she’d laugh and tell me the same story she told the week before. I told him how I still reach for the phone sometimes, forgetting there’s no one to call.
He didn’t try to fix it. He just listened. It was new. Strange. A start.
I still catch myself wondering what Verna would say if she could see us now. I imagine her shaking her head with a grin.
“That’s my girl,” she’d whisper. “Don’t let them see you break. Show them the ‘For Sale’ sign instead.”
She taught me that strength wears many faces. Sometimes it’s silent endurance. Sometimes it’s action. And sometimes, it’s just knowing when to say:
Enough.