Alright, everyone, buckle up! It’s Sandra here, your friendly neighborhood housewife, and I’ve got a wild story to tell. You know how they say hard times reveal a person’s true character? Well, let me tell you, this past week was a real eye-opener about my dear husband, Tom.
We’ve always had a good thing going. We split chores, we communicate (well, most of the time), and we generally respect each other. So when I got hit with the flu like a ton of bricks, I assumed Tom would step up, take care of things, and let me rest. I mean, that’s what a supportive husband would do, right?
Wrong. So, so wrong.
I was curled up in bed, wrapped in my thickest blanket, shivering despite my fever, when I heard the doorbell ring. At first, I thought I was imagining things. But then came the unmistakable sound of multiple voices, laughter, and… was that the smell of pizza?
My stomach clenched in both hunger and frustration. Surely, Tom wouldn’t—
Oh, but he would.
Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffled toward the door, using the wall for support. When I peeked into the living room, my worst nightmare came true. There, sprawled across our couch and even on our bed, were Tom and his friends. Empty pizza boxes littered the floor, beer cans were stacked like some kind of frat house pyramid, and crumbs—oh, the crumbs!—were scattered over the very sheets I slept in.
Tom turned and spotted me. But instead of concern, I was met with an annoyed scowl. “Hey,” he said, like I was the one intruding on his fun. “Why are you out of bed?”
I blinked, sure I had misheard him. “I can’t exactly sleep through all this noise,” I croaked, my throat burning. “And why are you guys using our bedroom like a lounge?”
Tom rolled his eyes and waved me off. “It’s just for tonight, babe. Don’t be so dramatic. And while you’re up, could you start cleaning up? We’re running out of space here.”
Oh. Oh, he did NOT just say that.
I stared at him, stunned. My fevered brain struggled to process the sheer audacity of it all. I was sick, barely able to stand, and he wanted ME to clean up after his little pizza party?
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I wasn’t going to let them fall. “I’m sick, Tom,” I rasped. “The least you could do is show some compassion.”
Tom let out an exaggerated sigh, clearly annoyed. “Oh, come on. It’s just a little flu. You’re not dying.” Then, he turned right back to his friends, dismissing me entirely.
That was it. That was the moment something inside me snapped.
Fine, if he wasn’t going to respect me, I’d find someone he WOULD listen to.
With the last ounce of strength I had, I stumbled back to the guest room and grabbed my phone. I knew exactly who to call.
Mrs. Thompson. Tom’s mother. A force of nature.
“Hello, Mrs. Thompson?” My voice was weak, but my determination was strong. “I need your help.”
After I explained the situation, there was a moment of silence. Then, she chuckled—a low, ominous sound. “Oh, don’t you worry, sweetheart,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
An hour later, the doorbell rang. I peeked through the doorway, and there she was. Mrs. Thompson, standing with her arms crossed, her gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. The second the door swung open, the entire mood of the apartment shifted. Laughter died down, the TV was muted, and Tom’s friends suddenly looked very, very uncomfortable.
“THOMAS,” she boomed, her voice shaking the very walls. “WHAT do you think you’re doing?”
Silence. Tom’s friends froze, pizza crusts halfway to their mouths. Tom opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Thompson cut him off with a glare that could melt glaciers.
“Throwing a party while your wife is sick? In the bedroom, no less?” Her voice was pure steel. “And to top it off, you expected her to clean up? Have I raised a fool?”
Tom’s face turned a shade of red I had never seen before.
Mrs. Thompson turned to me, her expression softening. “Sandra, honey, you go on back to bed. I’ll handle this.”
Oh, this was going to be good.
For the next three days, our home transformed into a military-grade cleaning boot camp. Tom and his buddies, who once lounged around like kings, were now scrubbing, mopping, and dusting under Mrs. Thompson’s watchful eye. She ordered them around like a drill sergeant, her voice sharp, her commands firm.
Meanwhile, I sat comfortably on the couch, bundled in blankets, sipping hot tea like the queen I was. Every now and then, Tom would throw me a pitiful glance, as if hoping for a shred of mercy. But nope, he had dug his own grave.
After a particularly grueling round of toilet scrubbing, Mrs. Thompson clapped her hands. “Alright, that’s enough for now.” Then, she fixed Tom with a look that made him shrink about three inches. “But, young man, we still need to have a conversation about respect in a marriage.”
Tom gulped. “Yes, Mom.”
By the time I recovered from my flu, our home looked spotless. But more importantly, something had changed in Tom. He hovered around me, bringing me tea, fluffing my pillows, and apologizing every five minutes.
“Sandra,” he said one evening, looking genuinely remorseful. “I’m so, so sorry. I was a complete idiot.”
“Yes,” I agreed, taking another sip of my tea. “You were.”
“I’ll never do that again. I should have taken care of you, not thrown a party. And I definitely shouldn’t have expected you to clean.” He sighed, rubbing his face. “Can I make it up to you?”
I thought about it, then grinned. “Actually, I was thinking we could try that new couples’ cooking class. You know, the one that teaches teamwork and communication?”
His eyes widened, but to my surprise, he nodded. “Okay. I deserve that.”
That, my friends, is how I turned a flu into a full-blown marital makeover. And let me tell you, teamwork in the kitchen? It’s a whole lot better than cleaning up a pizza party while sick.
Lesson learned, Tom. Lesson learned.
