Let me repeat that, because even now it seems surreal: my father was crying. In forty years, I’d never seen him shed a single tear. Matthew appeared behind me, slightly out of breath.
“Kim! Where’s Mom? What’s happened?”
He stopped dead as he, too, noticed our sobbing father.
We exchanged a look that said more about the terror we shared at that moment than words ever could. “Dad?” I moved closer, stepping over takeout containers as I approached the sofa. “What happened?
Is Mom in hospital?”
Dad looked up at me, his face red and blotchy. “Hospital? No, your mother has gone crazy!”
Matthew and I exchanged confused glances.
I’m sure we were thinking the same thing: had Dad finally lost it? “Crazy how?” my brother asked carefully, using the same tone he used to use with his toddler during tantrums. Dad gestured wildly at the mess around him.
“She packed her bags and left! With Janet! On vacation!”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You could have heard a dust bunny sneeze — and given the state of the house, there were probably quite a few of those around. My racing heart slowly settled as understanding dawned. Would it be inappropriate to laugh?
Because suddenly, I really wanted to. “So…” I said slowly, choosing my words carefully, “she’s not in the hospital?”
“No!”
“She’s not in danger?”
“No!”
Dad jumped up, pacing the cluttered living room like a caged animal. “But this isn’t normal!
She’s always here! Cooking, cleaning, taking care of everything. She doesn’t just leave.
This isn’t like her. She’s acting crazy!”
Something clicked inside me then; not anger, exactly, but a sudden, crystal-clear understanding. You know those moments when everything just makes sense?
When all the little pieces you’ve been seeing for years finally form a complete picture? “Dad,” I said quietly, “Mom isn’t the one acting crazy. You are.
She’s just gone on holiday, and a well-earned one at that. She’s not just your unpaid housekeeper, you know.”
“What are you talking about?” He stopped pacing to stare at me. “She loves taking care of me!”
Matthew stepped forward, his voice unusually firm.
“No, Dad. She loves YOU, not cleaning up after you.”
Dad’s mouth fell open. “But she never complained!”
“Because she thought she had no choice,” I replied, pulling out my phone.
Now I knew exactly what was going on, I realized there was only one way to settle it. I dialed Mom’s number and put it on speaker. I caught Matthew’s eye and saw my own mixed emotions reflected there: amusement, concern, and just a touch of guilt for enjoying this a little too much.
She answered on the third ring, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Kimberly! Are you calling to yell at me?
Is your father losing his mind?”
A grin spread across my face. “Oh, he’s completely spiraling.”
Mom sighed, but it wasn’t her usual tired sigh. “I thought so.”
I could hear waves crashing in the background and seagulls calling.
Her voice had a lightness I hadn’t heard since I was a kid. Remember how your mom sounded when you were little, before life piled all its responsibilities on her shoulders? That’s how she sounded now.
“You know what?” I looked at Matthew, who nodded in understanding. “Matthew and I are paying for another week. Stay longer.”
“Really?” Mom gasped.
“NO!” Dad sputtered. “YES,” Matthew and I said in unison. Mom’s laugh (her real laugh, not the polite one she used at church socials) rang through the speaker.
“You kids are my favorites.”
“Enjoy the sunshine, Mom. We’ll see you when you get back.”
I hung up as Dad stared at us, betrayal written across his face. “What did you do?!”
“We set her free,” I said simply.
Matthew patted Dad’s shoulder. “Time for you to finally learn how to use a washing machine.”
Have you ever watched someone try to figure out basic life skills in their sixties? The next two weeks were…
educational, to say the least. Dad burned his eggs. He turned his white shirts pink in the laundry.
He nearly started a fire trying to heat leftover pasta in a metal container in the microwave. Each time he called Mom for help, she responded with a new photo: her lounging by the pool, walking on the beach, holding up a fruity drink with a tiny umbrella. “Figure it out, Tom,” she texted.
“See you soon.”
When Mom finally came home, her skin glowed with a gentle tan, her shoulders were relaxed, and her smile reached her eyes. Dad stood in the doorway, staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Maybe he was.
“I missed you,” he admitted softly. Mom set down her suitcase, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “I missed me too.”
Everything changed after that.
Dad started not just helping with household chores, but taking the initiative to do laundry, wash dishes, and mop the floors. But more importantly, he started seeing Mom as more than just the person who took care of him. It wasn’t just about the chores.
It was about appreciation and partnership. About remembering that the woman he married was a whole person, not just a support system. Let me leave you with this thought: My mother spent 40 years serving her family.
One trip showed her she was more than just a wife. And one painful reality check showed my dad that being “the man of the house” means taking care of it too. To anyone reading this — and I know there are plenty of you out there living this same story right now — if you’re the one doing everything, take a break.
And if you’re the one watching someone else do everything? Step up before they step away because at the end of the day, a marriage should be a partnership. Not a one-woman show.
These days, when I visit, I often find them in the kitchen together — Dad washing dishes while Mom tells him about her day, or Mom reading a book while Dad folds laundry. It’s what marriage should have been all along. And Mom?
She takes a vacation with Janet every year now. Dad still doesn’t love it, but he’s learned to manage. After all, he can take care of himself now and wants Mom to be happy.
Source: amomama
