It had been a rough week. The flu had me bedridden, feverish, and barely able to keep my eyes open. I needed rest, but instead, I was jolted awake by the sound of the doorbell. Then came laughter, loud voices, and the unmistakable smell of pizza.
Dragging myself out of bed, wrapped in a blanket, I stumbled down the hallway to see what was happening. To my disbelief, there they were: my husband Tom and his friends sprawled out on **our bed**, surrounded by open pizza boxes, beer cans, and crumbs scattered everywhere.
“Tom, what is this?” I croaked, my voice weak but sharp with irritation.
He didn’t even look up from his conversation. “Just a little get-together, babe. Nothing big.”
I blinked, stunned. “I’m sick, Tom. I need rest, and you’re throwing a party? In our bedroom?”
Finally, he turned to me, but instead of apologizing, he rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. And while you’re up, can you clean this up? We’re running out of space here.”
I stared at him, speechless, as his friends chuckled. “Tom,” I said, trying to keep my composure, “I have a fever. I can barely stand. I need you to take this seriously.”
But his response made my blood boil: “Stop pretending you’re so sick. It’s just the flu. You’re not dying. You can handle it.” Then he turned back to the TV, as if I didn’t exist.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and I silently left the room, heading to the guest bedroom. Lying there, I felt anger and sadness churn inside me. But then, an idea struck—a way to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget.
I grabbed my phone and dialed a number I knew by heart: my mother-in-law.
“Hi, Carol,” I said, my voice hoarse but deliberate. “I hate to bother you, but Tom has some friends over, and I’m too sick to manage the house. I think he could really use your help.”
Carol, bless her heart, was a no-nonsense woman who adored her son but had no tolerance for disrespect. “He’s throwing a party while you’re sick? Oh, I’ll handle this,” she said, and hung up.
Forty minutes later, I heard the doorbell again. I didn’t even need to check to know who it was.
“Mom?” I heard Tom’s startled voice.
“What is this mess, Tom?” Carol’s voice boomed, cutting through the chatter. “You’ve got your sick wife in bed, and you’re hosting a pizza party like some college kid? Are you out of your mind?”
I peeked down the hallway and saw her storming into the room, hands on her hips. Tom tried to stammer an excuse, but Carol wasn’t having it. She ordered his friends out of the house and made Tom start cleaning up immediately—pizza boxes, beer cans, crumbs, everything.
“But Mom—” Tom protested.
“No buts!” she snapped. “Your wife is sick, and you think this is acceptable behavior? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
When the room was spotless, Carol marched into the guest bedroom to check on me. “Sweetheart, you rest. Tom’s going to handle everything else today, aren’t you, Tom?”
“Yes, Mom,” Tom muttered, his face red with embarrassment.
The rest of the day, Tom was on cleanup duty while I stayed in bed. He even made me tea and soup, though his sheepish apology was the real cherry on top.
“Sorry, babe,” he said that night. “I wasn’t thinking. I’ll do better.”
I smiled weakly, still annoyed but grateful for his newfound humility. Sometimes, it takes a tough mom to remind her son how to treat his wife—with respect and care.
