I’m a nurse, and my husband’s a realtor. On the surface, it looks like we’ve got it all—two healthy kids (usually), a nice house, steady jobs. But the truth is, behind those smiling Facebook photos is a marriage stretched too thin by one person’s selfishness.
That person? My husband, Dave.
Let me back up. I work 12-hour shifts in a high-stress hospital ward, and lately, the workload has been soul-crushing. Burnout is real. Meanwhile, Dave sells high-end properties, drives around town in his shiny SUV, and makes it seem like he’s carrying the weight of the world every time a client cancels a showing. And when he gets home? He throws himself on the couch and acts like he just got back from war.
But I’m not here to write about his work ethic. This is about what happened the day before we were supposed to leave for our long-awaited beach vacation—a trip we’d planned six months in advance.
It was supposed to be a family trip. A break. A chance to reconnect.
Then our kids—Emily (4) and Noah (2)—woke up with 102-degree fevers. Both were throwing up. I immediately kicked into nurse-mode, juggling puke buckets, temp checks, and trying to keep them hydrated while also calling the pediatrician’s office.
Dave, meanwhile, sipped his coffee in the kitchen like none of it was happening. When I suggested postponing or cancelling the trip, he stared at me like I’d told him we needed to set the house on fire.
“I’m still going,” he said, wiping cream cheese from his lip. “I need this. You know how hard I’ve been working.”
I blinked at him. “I work too, Dave. And the kids are sick. They need both of us here.”
He actually had the gall to scoff.
“You’re better at the medical stuff anyway. I’d just be in the way.”
That was the moment I knew something inside me had snapped. No apology. No concern for me. No offer to take turns or cancel together. He booked his Uber to the airport like it was no big deal, kissed me on the cheek, and left me with two feverish children, a pile of laundry, and a rage that had been simmering for years.
But this time? This time I wasn’t just going to cry into my scrubs and pretend it was okay.
While Dave was lounging at a luxury resort, posting Instagram stories of mimosas and sunsets with captions like “Well-deserved break,” I was elbow-deep in baby wipes and Pedialyte. But every time I rocked my son to sleep or cleaned up another mess, my mind was elsewhere, planning.
He had the house, the peace, the spa. But I had the will, the receipts, and full access to every part of his life. Because guess what? He forgot that I’m the one who manages the bills. The car payments. The digital passwords. Everything.
So the day after he left, while the kids were finally asleep, I walked into his precious garage—the place he worshipped more than our living room. His tools, his gear, and especially… his pride and joy: a custom Harley-Davidson he’d spent two years restoring.
Oh, I didn’t touch the Harley. I’m not that kind of petty.
But I did open his locked toolbox (because I know his password: “D4V3KING”—seriously?). I removed every single piece of his meticulously organized socket sets and put them in the dishwasher with a cycle of the hottest water possible. Every single tool—warped. Ruined.
Then I grabbed his “lucky blazer,” the one he insists on wearing to close big deals, and I dry-cleaned it with my red scrubs. The pink blazer that came back? Fabulous, really.
Still not satisfied, I went digital.
Dave has a shared account with me on several apps and services—his gym, his car wash subscription, and his work calendar. I canceled everything. I also replaced all his Spotify playlists with Barney songs and added an automatic alarm every morning at 5:00 a.m. with the phrase “Your wife deserves a break” blaring through his headphones.
And then came the real revenge: I planned my own vacation. With the kids.
The moment they were feeling better, I booked a staycation weekend at a luxury hotel two towns over. Poolside cabanas, room service, and spa appointments for me while the kids enjoyed supervised playrooms. I took selfies with the kids eating pancakes in bed. I tagged Dave in every post. “Finally getting the break we deserved.”
When Dave came back home four days later, sun-kissed and smug, he found:
His tools, warped and rusted
His clothes were dyed strange colors
His Spotify is screaming “I Love You, You Love Me”
And an empty house
I left him a note on the fridge:
“Gone to enjoy the vacation you abandoned. The kids are fine now. Try using a thermometer next time instead of a one-way ticket. – Your Wife”
When I got back, he was quiet. Sheepish. For once, he didn’t have a comeback.
And that night, he actually cried.
He finally admitted that he’d been selfish. That he’d taken me for granted. That he never realized what it meant to be the “default parent” until he walked into the house and found silence—and the absence of a family.
I don’t know where our marriage stands. Maybe this is the beginning of the end. Or maybe it’s a new chapter. But one thing’s for sure:
He will never forget the lesson I taught him
