I thought I was being the perfect wife—going all out to plan an amazing dinner party for Todd’s 35th birthday. But just before our guests were supposed to arrive, he casually told me he was ditching the party to watch a game at the bar. What happened next? Let’s just say, I got the last laugh.
You’d think that after six years of marriage, a little gratitude would be in order. But not from Todd. Every year, I’d pour my heart into his birthday celebrations, and he would take it all for granted. This year, though, his sense of entitlement reached new heights.
Let me tell you about Todd. When we first met, he was charming, thoughtful, and even wrote me poetry—yes, poetry! But over time, that charm slowly turned into a sense of entitlement that drove me crazy.
Take last Thanksgiving, for example. Todd had this brilliant idea to host dinner for both our families. “Claire,” he said, smiling, “I think we should host Thanksgiving this year.”
“Great,” I replied, “How should we divide the work?”
He waved me off like I had asked something unreasonable. “Oh, you’re so much better at all that stuff. I’ll handle drinks or something. Just make it memorable, okay?”
I should’ve known better. For two weeks, I did all the planning, the shopping, the cooking, and the prepping while Todd sat on the couch. Every now and then, he’d ask, “Do you need me to pick up anything?” On the big day, I roasted the turkey, made the side dishes, and even baked two pies. And what did Todd do? He carried a cooler of beer to the living room. That’s it.
During dinner, as our families raved about how delicious everything was and admired the decorations, Todd couldn’t resist soaking up the credit. “Glad you all love it,” he said, grinning. “I wanted it to be special this year.”
I nearly dropped my fork. “Really, Todd?” I asked. “What part did you make special? The centerpiece or the green bean casserole?”
Of course, he ignored me. That’s Todd—he wanted all the credit, but did absolutely nothing to earn it.
Last year, I made him a personalized photo album for his birthday, filled with our travel memories and moments from our relationship. His response? “Oh. So, where’s the real gift?” That one stung. The man I had married, the one who once cherished heartfelt gestures, now dismissed them as nothing. That was my wake-up call.
But this year? This year was the breaking point.
Todd had asked for a “big, proper birthday dinner.” “Invite everyone—family, friends, my buddies,” he said nonchalantly. “Make it decent. I don’t want to be embarrassed.”
I should’ve said no. I should’ve put my foot down. But instead, I went all in, planning for weeks to make it perfect. Stuffed chicken, rosemary potatoes, a charcuterie spread, and a three-layer chocolate cake decorated with edible gold flakes. Todd’s contribution? Absolutely nothing. Every night he came home, he’d say, “You’ve got this, babe,” before sinking into the couch.
The day of the party arrived, and the house was absolutely stunning. The table was set, candles flickered softly, and the food was prepped to perfection. As I was finishing the cake, Todd wandered into the kitchen, barely looking at the spread, and casually said, “Looks good,” before grabbing a soda from the fridge.
Then, in a move that left me speechless, he added, “Don’t bother finishing this. I’m heading to the bar to watch the game. Cancel everything.”
I froze. “You’re ditching your own birthday dinner?” I asked, barely able to believe it.
He shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Just tell everyone we’re busy.”
Anger swelled up inside me, but I swallowed it. “Fine,” I said, keeping my voice steady. And as he walked out the door, I made a decision. If Todd wanted to act like a spoiled brat, I’d let him—but not without teaching him a lesson.
I grabbed my phone and texted all the guests: “Change of plans—meet us at the bar near our place. Bring your appetite!” Then, I loaded up all the food into my car and headed to the bar.
When I arrived, Todd was sitting with his buddies, totally unaware of what was about to happen. I set up a table right in front of everyone, unpacking dish after dish. The delicious smell of the food spread throughout the bar, quickly drawing attention.
“What’s going on here?” someone asked, eyeing the spread.
“Oh,” I said loudly, “This was supposed to be my husband’s birthday dinner. But he ditched me for the bar, so I thought, why waste the food?”
The whole bar erupted in laughter. That’s when Todd finally noticed what I was doing. He stormed over, his face turning red, and whispered-shouted, “Claire! What the hell are you doing?”
I didn’t even look at him as I started serving the food to the bar patrons. That’s when the door opened, and in walked his parents, my parents, and our guests. Todd’s mom, never one to hold back, walked right up to him.
“What’s going on, Todd?” she asked, clearly confused.
I smiled and jumped in. “Oh, I’ll explain! Todd decided the game was more important than the dinner he demanded. So, I brought it to him!”
His dad shook his head in disappointment. “That’s disrespectful,” he muttered. Meanwhile, my mom grabbed a plate. “The food smells amazing! Let’s eat.”
Todd’s friends laughed at him, and soon the bar turned into a full-on birthday party. When I brought out the cake, it was the grand finale. On top, in bold letters, I’d written: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY SELFISH HUSBAND!”
By the time we got home, Todd was fuming. “You humiliated me!” he shouted.
I looked at him calmly and replied, “No, Todd. You humiliated yourself. Don’t expect another homemade dinner anytime soon.”
It’s been two weeks since that night. Todd hasn’t apologized outright, but he’s been unusually polite—probably because he knows I’m not the kind of wife he can walk all over anymore. If nothing else, that’s a win in my book.
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