I was stunned as I re-read the section of Leah and Rachel, Jacob and Laban. Wow, was it messy. Betrayal, jealousy, lying, manipulation, deception. It was raw.
So imagine my surprise when I got a heaven inspired article about this very situation and how aptly it applied to me:
Last Month Our Son Told My Wife to Stop Calling. "Mom, I'm 33. Give Me Space." She Sat on the Couch Holding Her Phone for an Hour. Didn't Move. Didn't Cry. Just Sat There. I've Been Married to Her for 35 Years. I've Never Seen Her Look That Lost.
I was in the kitchen when she got off the phone.
She walked in. Set her phone on the counter. Sat down on the couch. And just... stopped.
I asked what happened. She didn't answer.
I asked again. She said, "Michael told me to stop calling. He said I'm too much. He said he needs space."
She wasn't crying. That's what scared me. She was past crying. Like something inside her had just gone quiet.
I sat down next to her. Didn't know what to say. So I just sat.
After a long time, she said: "I gave him everything. Thirty-three years. And he doesn't want me."
***
Linda has been "the mother" her whole life.
Not just to our kids. To everyone. The neighbor's children. The youth group at church. Her sister's kids when they needed somewhere to stay.
But Michael — our oldest — he was different. He was hers. The one she poured everything into. Every school play. Every fever. Every heartbreak. Every phone call, every visit, every meal she'd cook when he came home.
She didn't know how else to love him. She gave. That's what she did. That's who she was.
And for years it worked. He needed her. He called. He showed up.
But somewhere in his late twenties, something shifted.
He started pulling away. Calling less. Visiting less. And when she'd reach out, he'd get irritated.
"Mom, you don't have to call every day."
"Mom, I didn't ask you to do that."
"Mom, please. Just give me space."
Each time, I watched her face fall. And each time, she'd try harder. Call more. Show up more. Give more.
Like if she just loved him enough, he'd come back.
***
The night after the phone call, she didn't sleep.
I woke up at 2 AM and her side of the bed was empty. I found her in the living room, sitting in the dark, staring at nothing.
"Linda. Come to bed."
She didn't move.
"I don't know who I am if he doesn't need me."
I sat down across from her. I didn't know what to say to that.
"I've given my whole life to those kids," she said. "And I don't know if I've ever felt loved back. Not really. Not the way I needed."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Because I heard what she didn't say. She wasn't just talking about Michael. She was talking about all of it. The years. The giving. The waiting for someone — anyone — to see her the way she saw them.
And I wondered, for the first time: Did I ever make her feel seen? Or did I just let her pour everything into the kids while I watched from the sidelines?
***
She tried everything.
She tried talking to Michael. Told him she didn't deserve to be spoken to like that. He said she was "too much." Needed to "relax."
She tried not calling. Lasted four days. The silence was worse than the rejection.
She tried praying. Asked God to soften his heart. It helped a little. But the hurt stayed.
And I watched her. Every day. Trying to hold herself together. Trying to figure out how to love someone who was pushing her away.
I wanted to fix it. That's what I do. But I couldn't fix this. I couldn't make Michael call. I couldn't undo thirty-three years of patterns.
All I could do was watch my wife unravel and feel useless.
***
The quiz happened on a Tuesday night.
She was in bed scrolling her phone. Couldn't sleep again. I was next to her, half-awake.
She got quiet. Then I heard her whisper: "Oh."
"What?"
She turned the phone toward me. Some quiz. "Which Woman of the Bible Are You?"
"I got Leah," she said.
"Who's Leah?"
She read me the description. Her voice unsteady.
"Leah was the unwanted wife. Jacob worked seven years to marry her sister Rachel — the beautiful one. But on the wedding night, their father switched them. Jacob woke up married to Leah. And he didn't want her."
Linda paused. Then kept reading.
"Leah had son after son, hoping each one would finally make Jacob love her. 'Surely now my husband will love me.' 'This time he will want me.' It never worked. She kept knocking on a door that wouldn't open."
She looked up at me.
"That's me. That's what I've been doing. With Michael. With all of them. Giving and giving, hoping someone would finally love me back."
Then she read me the line that broke her open:
"You've been knocking your whole life on a door that was already open. The love you're looking for was never behind your children. It was behind you. Waiting."
She started crying. Really crying. The kind she'd been holding back for weeks.
I didn't say anything. I just held her.
***
She signed up for some kind of plan that night. Daily lessons based on her result. Designed for "Leahs."
I was skeptical. What's a Bible quiz going to do about our son?
But I didn't say that. I'd learned to shut up and let her try things.
The first lesson showed her Leah's story. How she kept having children hoping it would earn Jacob's love. How it never worked. How she kept knocking on a door that wouldn't open.
Then it asked a question: "Where in your life do you keep giving, hoping it will finally make someone love you?"
Linda told me she put her phone down when she read that. Couldn't answer right away.
But she knew.
Every phone call Michael didn't ask for. Every dinner. Every visit. Every time she showed up hoping he'd be glad to see her.
She wasn't just being a good mother. She was trying to earn something. To beg for something.
"Please see me. Please need me. Please don't leave."
Thirty-three years. And underneath all that giving — terror. That if she stopped, she'd disappear. That without someone needing her, she was nothing.
***
The next lesson showed her a verse she'd never noticed.
"When the Lord saw that Leah was not loved, he enabled her to conceive."
God saw her. Not after she proved herself. Not after she earned it. Before any of it.
She told me she read it five times. And something shifted.
"I've been standing at a door my whole life," she said. "Knocking. Begging to be let in. And the door was never locked. I just didn't know."
She started praying differently after that. Not "God, change Michael." Just "God, do You see me?"
And something in her settled. Not fixed. Settled. Like she'd finally stopped running.
***
The plan taught her something that changed everything.
Leah named her fourth son Judah — "praise." Not "maybe this time he'll love me." Just praise. For the One who saw her when no one else did.
She stopped trying to earn what was never hers to earn. She turned to the One who already loved her.
Linda started doing the same.
She stopped calling Michael every two days. Not as punishment. Because she finally understood she wasn't going to find what she was looking for in his voice.
She started sitting in the morning with her coffee and her Bible. Not reading to fix something. Just... receiving.
She told me one morning: "I've spent fifty-two years giving. I never learned how to receive. The plan said that's the Leah trap. We give to earn love because we don't believe we're already loved."
I didn't fully understand. But I understood her. And she was different.
***
Two weeks later, Michael called.
She hadn't reached out. He called on his own.
They talked. Not about anything big. Just... talked. She didn't try to fix anything. Didn't ask too many questions. Just listened.
At the end he said: "This was nice, Mom."
She hung up and looked at me with tears in her eyes. But not sad tears.
"I didn't need him to say more," she said. "I already know I'm loved. Not because he called. Because I finally stopped looking for it in the wrong place."
***
I've been married to Linda for thirty-five years.
I thought I knew her. I thought I understood how she worked. Give, give, give. That's just who she was.
I didn't see what was underneath. The fear. The emptiness. The desperate need to be needed because she didn't believe she was loved any other way.
And if I'm honest — I didn't help. I let her pour into the kids. I let her carry the emotional weight of the whole family. I took her giving for granted because it made my life easier.
I was part of the problem.
But watching her now — watching her sit with her coffee, not rushing to call anyone, not trying to fix anything, just... being — I see a woman I haven't seen in thirty years.
The one who isn't performing. The one who isn't earning. The one who finally believes she's already loved.
***
Last Sunday we were sitting on the porch. Evening. Quiet.
She said: "Thank you for sitting with me that night. On the couch. After Michael called."
"I didn't know what else to do."
"That's exactly what I needed. Someone who didn't try to fix it. Someone who just stayed."
She was quiet for a minute. Then:
"I spent thirty years knocking on a door that was already open. I thought I had to earn love from my kids. From everyone. I didn't know God was already holding it out. I just had to stop knocking and turn around."
I reached for her hand.
My wife is back. Not the mother. Not the giver. Not the woman who needed to be needed.
Just Linda.
And that's more than enough.
***
If your wife has spent her whole life giving — and she's still waiting to feel loved back
If she's done everything right for your kids and still feels invisible —
If she's holding on so tight because she's terrified of what happens if she lets go —
Maybe show her this.
The quiz takes three minutes. She'll discover her spiritual archetype — which Woman of the Bible shares her story. And she'll get a plan that helped my wife finally stop knocking on a door that was already open.
Not more giving. More receiving.
I experienced this epiphany over the holidays. I sat in the background, watching my family have fun and enjoy each other as I worked and cleaned...and stopped.
I just let things happen. If they wanted a meal (other than Penelope and maybe Liesl) I just let them do it, or plan it. "Mom, what if we were to have...?" "Great!" I would reply. "Let me know when you want to help me make it!" And sometimes it happened, sometimes it didn't. And I was okay with that. I made special meals if I was in the mood for them. And sometimes I wasn't :D.
I told everyone that I felt it was reasonable if everyone cleaned up a certain number of items after a meal (like we usually did with those home) and they all agreed...Kel with the stipulation that he wouldn't be held accountable for it, lol. (Some things never change, dear man-boy.)
I've been doing a lot of that.
Do I want to clean something up for me? Not for anyone else, not for society, not as a service to my kids because I finally realized they will never love me more because I sacrificed and cleaned up the shelves in the laundry room.
More importantly, over Christmas, I realized that my family never asked me to disappear. They have no expectations from me, other than what they are used to because I established it as a pattern.
Finding myself has been a challenge, but I have had more hope, more lightness of spirit than I've had for years.
