Alright, everyone, buckle up! It’s Sandra here, and do I have a story for you. You know how they say hard times reveal a person’s true character? Well, let me tell you, this past week was an absolute nightmare, and it sure showed me exactly what my dear husband, Tom, is made of.
Now, don’t get me wrong, Tom and I usually have a pretty good balance at home. We split chores, we communicate (for the most part), and we respect each other. At least, that’s what I thought—until I got hit with the flu.
I was down for the count. Fever, chills, body aches—the whole miserable package. So, naturally, I assumed Tom would step up, take care of things while I curled up in bed like a miserable little gremlin. That’s what a good partner does, right?
Well, I had another thing coming.
As I lay wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, drifting in and out of a feverish sleep, the doorbell rang. Then came the unmistakable sound of multiple voices, loud laughter, and the clinking of beer bottles. My foggy brain struggled to process the horror that was unfolding.
Tom had invited his friends over.
For a pizza party.
While I was dying in the next room.
At first, I thought, “Surely, they’ll keep it down. Tom knows I need to rest.” But no. Oh, no. The volume increased, the laughter boomed, and the scent of greasy pizza wafted through the air, making my nauseous stomach churn in protest.
An hour passed. Then another. I tossed and turned, my fevered mind growing more and more irritated. And finally, when I could take it no longer, I dragged myself out of bed, wrapped a blanket around my shivering frame, and stumbled toward the bedroom door.
The scene that greeted me was straight out of a frat house nightmare.
Tom and his friends were sprawled across OUR BED—yes, the one with the expensive cream-colored upholstery Tom had once vowed to “never let anyone eat on”—surrounded by empty pizza boxes, crumpled napkins, and half-finished beer cans.
Tom glanced up, and instead of looking guilty, he had the audacity to frown at me. “Hey,” he said, annoyed, “why are you out of bed?”
My jaw dropped. My fevered brain struggled to comprehend the sheer level of audacity.
“I can’t exactly sleep through a full-blown party happening in the next room,” I croaked, voice raspy and weak. “And why—WHY—are you using our BEDROOM as a party lounge?”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Sandra. It’s just for tonight. Don’t be so dramatic. And since you’re already up, you could probably start cleaning up a bit? We’re running out of space here.”
I could have fainted right then and there. My sick, aching body was barely holding itself together, and he expected ME to clean up after his fun night? My hands clenched into weak fists.
“Tom,” I rasped, “I’m sick. I can barely stand. The least you could do is show a little kindness and let me rest.”
Tom waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t pull the ‘sick’ card. It’s just the flu. You’re not dying. Just clean up a little. You can handle it.”
And just like that, something inside me snapped. My vision went red. I wasn’t going to argue. I wasn’t going to beg. No, I had a much better idea.
With shaking hands, I grabbed my phone and called the one person who could fix this mess: Mrs. Thompson.
Tom’s mother.
The woman was a force of nature. She could make grown men cower with a single glance. If anyone could whip Tom into shape, it was her.
“Hello, Mrs. Thompson?” I said weakly. “I need your help.”
After a brief explanation, there was silence. Then, a low, dangerous chuckle. “Oh, honey,” she said. “Don’t you worry. I’m on my way.”
Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Tom, oblivious to his impending doom, shouted, “Someone get that!”
No one moved.
So, he got up, swung the door open—and immediately paled.
There stood Mrs. Thompson, arms crossed, eyes blazing. The entire room went silent. Tom’s friends froze, half-eaten pizza slices suspended in midair, as if sensing the presence of an apex predator.
“THOMAS,” Mrs. Thompson boomed, “WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”
Tom stammered. His friends shrank into the couch.
Mrs. Thompson wasn’t having it. “Throwing a party while your wife is sick in bed? Using the bedroom as a lounge? THOMAS. You were raised better than this!”
Tom opened his mouth, but she silenced him with a single finger. “No excuses. Get to work. ALL of you. This place better be spotless in an hour!”
What followed was a scene so glorious, I wished I could have filmed it. Tom and his friends scrambled like terrified children, grabbing trash bags, scrubbing the floors, wiping down surfaces, and even—oh, the irony—doing the laundry.
For the next three days, Mrs. Thompson ran our house like a boot camp. Tom fetched me tea, plumped my pillows, and checked my temperature every two hours. He apologized at least a hundred times. His friends, once loud and obnoxious, now whispered meek “get well soons” as they scrubbed the bathroom tiles.
By the time I finally recovered, the apartment was spotless, Tom looked like he’d survived a war, and Mrs. Thompson was packing up her purse, mission complete.
Before she left, she gave Tom one final look. “Thomas,” she said, “a happy wife means a happy life. Don’t forget it.”
Tom nodded vigorously, like a student promising to never misbehave again.
Then, she turned to me, her face softening. “Sandra, sweetheart, if he ever forgets, you know who to call.”
With that, she swept out the door, leaving behind a very humbled Tom.
That night, Tom turned to me, his voice full of regret. “Sandra, I was an idiot. I should have taken care of you. I’m so sorry.”
I let him sweat for a second, then finally sighed. “Well,” I said, “you can make it up to me. There’s a new couples’ cooking class starting next week. You and me. Teamwork. Communication.”
Tom gulped but nodded. “Whatever you want.”
And that, my friends, is how I turned the flu into a full-blown marriage improvement plan.
So next time your partner acts like a fool? Just remember: call their mom.
