Alright, everyone, get comfortable because I have a story to tell. You know how they say that tough times show a person’s true colors? Well, this past week, I got a front-row seat to my husband Tom’s less-than-glamorous side, and let me tell you—it was eye-opening.
We’ve always had a solid relationship. We split the chores, communicate (well, mostly), and respect each other. So, when I came down with the flu—fever, chills, the works—I thought Tom would step up. I imagined him bringing me soup, checking my temperature, maybe even rubbing my back like a caring husband would.
Boy, was I wrong.
Instead of playing the loving nurse, Tom decided it was the perfect time to invite his friends over for a pizza party. That’s right—while I was curled up in bed, sweating through my pajamas, he was playing host.
It all started when I heard the doorbell ring. My stomach dropped. The loud chatter of his friends filled the house, followed by bursts of laughter and the unmistakable scent of fresh pizza. My stomach grumbled despite my fever.
An hour passed, and I couldn’t ignore the noise any longer. I dragged myself out of bed, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, and shuffled toward the bedroom door. What I saw made my jaw drop.
There they were—Tom and his friends—sprawled out on OUR bed, munching on pizza, beer cans littering the floor. My beautiful cream-colored sheets, the ones Tom swore he’d protect, were covered in greasy fingerprints and crumbs. And Tom? He looked up at me—not with guilt, but with a scowl.
“Hey,” he said, his voice laced with annoyance. “Why are you out of bed?”
Excuse me?
“I can’t exactly rest with all this racket,” I croaked, my throat raw. “And why are you guys using our BEDROOM as a party lounge?”
Tom rolled his eyes. “It’s just for tonight. Don’t be so dramatic.” Then, as if he hadn’t already done enough damage, he added, “Since you’re up, you might as well start cleaning up. We’re running out of space here.”
I felt my temperature spike—not from the flu, but from sheer fury. “I’m sick, Tom,” I rasped. “The least you could do is let me rest.”
Tom scoffed. “Oh, come on. It’s just a little flu. You’re not dying.” Then he turned back to his friends, dismissing me entirely.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my breaking point.
I turned on my heel and stomped—well, weakly shuffled—back to the guest room. If Tom wouldn’t act like a husband, then I’d call in someone who could remind him what being a decent human being looked like.
I grabbed my phone and dialed the one person who could whip Tom into shape—his mother, Mrs. Thompson. The woman could make a grown man cower with a single look.
“Hello, Mrs. Thompson?” I said, my voice shaky with exhaustion and frustration. “It’s Sandra. I need your help.”
I laid out the whole situation. The pizza, the mess, the absolute audacity of her son. There was silence on the other end. Then, a low chuckle.
“Don’t you worry, honey,” she said in a tone that sent shivers down my spine—the good kind. “I’ll be right there.”
An hour later, the doorbell rang. I peeked out of my room just in time to see Mrs. Thompson step inside. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Face set in a look that could melt glaciers.
The party screeched to a halt.
“THOMAS,” she boomed. “WHAT. ON. EARTH. DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”
Tom’s friends froze, mid-bite. Tom himself looked like a deer caught in headlights.
“Uh… Mom?” he stammered. “W-what are you doing here?”
Mrs. Thompson wasn’t having it. “Throwing a party while your sick wife is suffering in bed? And in the bedroom, no less? Thomas, this is unacceptable!”
Tom opened his mouth, but she raised a hand, silencing him instantly.
Then, she turned to me, her gaze softening. “Sandra, dear, you go back to bed. I’ll take it from here.”
I didn’t argue. As I shuffled past Tom, I leaned in and whispered with a sweet smile, “Good luck, champ.”
And then, the fun began.
For the next three days, Mrs. Thompson ran our apartment like a boot camp. Tom and his friends scrubbed floors, washed dishes, and wiped down every surface imaginable. I lay comfortably on the couch, sipping tea while they suffered.
Mrs. Thompson even made use of the leftover pizza. “Necessary carbohydrates for a recovering patient,” she declared, giving Tom a pointed look.
Tom’s buddies, who had been loud and carefree just days ago, now looked like remorseful schoolboys. As for Tom, he hovered around me constantly, fetching me water, fluffing my pillows, offering endless apologies.
“Sandra, I am so, so sorry,” he said for the hundredth time. “There’s no excuse for how I acted. You were sick, and I…” He trailed off, guilt painted across his face.
Mrs. Thompson finally clapped her hands after their last chore. “Alright, that’ll do for now. But Thomas,” she fixed him with a glare, “this is just the beginning. We have a lot to discuss about respect in a marriage.”
Tom gulped.
By the time I fully recovered, the apartment looked like a showroom. And Tom? He was a changed man—more attentive, more considerate, and definitely more aware of the consequences of stepping out of line.
As Mrs. Thompson packed her purse, she turned to me with a knowing smile. “Sandra, dear, if this knucklehead ever acts up again, you know who to call.”
With that, she left, leaving a very humbled Tom in her wake.
Later that night, Tom turned to me, nervous but hopeful. “So, uh… what would you like to do tonight? Maybe order takeout? Your favorite place?”
I thought for a moment, then grinned. “Actually, I was thinking we could try that new couples’ cooking class. You know, the one that teaches teamwork and communication?”
Tom’s eyes widened. He knew this wasn’t just about cooking.
But to my surprise, he nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
And that, my friends, is how I turned a nasty flu into a full-blown marital makeover. Moral of the story? Sometimes, all it takes is a strong mother-in-law and a little bit of strategic payback.
