My friend Sarah was a realtor. It took one call to set my plan in motion.

“You want me to what?” she asked, laughing in disbelief.

“List our house. Online only, open house tomorrow. And make sure to mention the car comes with it.”

“The convertible? John’s baby? Eddie, he’ll flip! That car is his pride and joy.”

“That’s the idea,” I replied. “He loves that car more than anything. More than me, definitely.”

“Are you sure about this? Grief makes people do crazy things…”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Can you do it?”

The next morning, right on schedule, a steady stream of “potential buyers” started arriving. I sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and watching through the window as they circled John’s precious Porsche like vultures.

When John’s Uber pulled up, I couldn’t help but smile. Game time.

John burst through the door, face red as a tomato. “Edith! Why are there people pawing at my car? Some guy just asked if the leather seats were original!”

I took another leisurely sip of coffee. “Oh, that. I’m selling the house. And the car is a great selling point, don’t you think? Really sweetens the deal.”

“Selling the—” He sputtered, yanking out his phone. “Are you insane? I’ll call Sarah and get this listing taken down immediately!”

“Go ahead,” I said sweetly. “I’m sure she’d love to hear from you. Maybe you can tell her about your vacation while you’re at it. How was the beach? The water looked lovely in your photos.”

He stared at me, realization dawning slowly across his face. “This… is this some kind of punishment? Did I do something wrong?”

“What do you mean? I’m just doing what you would do: looking out for number one.” I stood up, finally letting some of my anger show. “After all, I’m just your wife. Not family, remember?”

The next hour was chaos. John ran around, trying to shoo away potential buyers while simultaneously begging me to reconsider. One elderly couple was particularly persistent, the wife going on and on about how the Porsche would be perfect for her “weekend antiquing.”

I thought John might actually cry. I let him stew until Sarah texted that she was running out of friends to send over.

“Okay, fine,” I announced to John. “You’re right. I won’t sell the house.” I paused for effect. “Or the car.”

John sagged with relief. “Thank God. Edith, I—”

I held up a hand. “But things are going to change, John. I lost my mother, and you couldn’t even be bothered to reschedule a vacation. I needed my husband, and you were too busy posting beach selfies to care.”

He had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t. But you’re going to start. Because next time you pull something like this, it won’t be a fake listing. And you can bet your original leather seats on that.”

He nodded, looking like a scolded schoolboy. “What can I do to make it right?”

“You can start by acting like a partner instead of a roommate who occasionally shares my bed. My mom’s gone, John. She was the only parent I had left, and I’m going to need time to grieve. Real grief, not the kind you can fix with a fancy dinner or a new piece of jewelry.”

“I…” His brows knitted into a frown and he clenched his jaw. “I don’t know how to be the man you need me to be, Edith, but I love you and I want to try.”

Things aren’t perfect now. John still struggles with emotions that can’t be fixed with his credit card. But he goes to therapy twice a month, and last week, he actually asked how I was feeling about Mom.

He sat and listened while I talked about how much I missed her Sunday calls, and how sometimes I still reach for the phone to tell her something funny before remembering I can’t. He even opened up a little about his own emotions.

Baby steps.

Sometimes I think about what Mom would say about all this. I can almost hear her laugh and see her shaking her head.

“That’s my girl,” she’d say. “Never let them see you sweat — just show ’em the ‘For Sale’ sign instead.”

She’d taught me that strength comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s pushing through pain, and sometimes it’s knowing when to push back.