I thought I was being the perfect wife, throwing a big, festive dinner for my husband Todd’s 35th birthday. The table was set, the food was almost done, and guests were just about to arrive.
Then Todd looked at me and casually dropped a bomb:
“I’m ditching the party. Going to the bar to watch the game with the guys.”
I stood there frozen, spatula in my hand. Weeks of planning… gone in one sentence.
What happened next? Let’s just say, I got the last laugh—big time.
Six Years of Marriage, and Not Much Gratitude
You’d think after six years together, Todd would’ve learned how to show a little appreciation. Every year, I put my heart into his birthday, and every year he took it for granted. But this time, his selfishness hit a whole new level.
Now, don’t get me wrong—Todd isn’t a monster. He can be charming when he wants to be. We’ve had fun times, vacations, little adventures. But there’s this one flaw that drives me absolutely crazy:
His entitlement.
Exhibit A: Thanksgiving Disaster
Last Thanksgiving, he woke up with what he thought was a “brilliant idea.”
“Claire, I think we should host Thanksgiving this year,” he announced, smiling like he’d just solved world peace.
I asked, “Okay, that sounds nice. How are we dividing up the responsibilities?”
He waved me off like I’d just suggested something ridiculous.
“Oh, you’re so much better at that stuff. I’ll handle… I don’t know, drinks or something. Just make it memorable, alright?”
I should’ve known better, but I agreed. For two weeks, I shopped, chopped, cooked, decorated, and stressed myself to exhaustion. Todd? He played fantasy football. Every so often, he’d pop his head in to ask:
“You need me to pick up anything?”
On the big day, I roasted the turkey, made all the sides, and even baked two pies from scratch. Todd’s contribution? He carried a cooler of beer into the living room. That’s it.
When everyone praised the food, Todd grinned and said:
“Glad you all love it. I wanted it to be special this year.”
I almost dropped my fork.
“Oh, really?” I asked. “What part did you make special? The green bean casserole or the centerpiece?”
He ignored me completely. Classic Todd—wants the glory, doesn’t do the work.
Exhibit B: The “Real Gift” Comment
Last year on his birthday, I made him a photo album filled with our best memories—vacations, date nights, little moments that meant the world to me.
He flipped through it, looked up, and said:
“Oh. So… where’s the real gift?”
That wasn’t just a knife to the heart—it was a chainsaw.
I’d married a man who once wrote me poetry, and now he couldn’t even appreciate something made with love.
The Final Straw: His 35th Birthday
Two weeks before his birthday, Todd made his “request.”
“Claire, I want a big, proper birthday dinner this year. Invite the family, my buddies, everyone.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You mean… you want me to plan it?”
“Well, yeah. You’re good at this stuff. Just make it decent. I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of everyone.”
Decent? The nerve.
Still, I agreed. I guess I wanted to give him one last chance to appreciate me.
For the next two weeks, I went all out—spinach-stuffed chicken, rosemary potatoes, a fancy charcuterie board with cheeses I couldn’t even pronounce, and a three-layer chocolate cake topped with edible gold flakes.
Todd’s contribution?
“I’m swamped at work, babe. But you’ve got this. You’re good at these things.”
I was so tired I wanted to cry, but I bit my tongue and kept going.
The Day of the Party
The house was spotless. The table was perfect. The food smelled heavenly. I’d even borrowed extra chairs from our neighbor Janice.
Todd walked into the kitchen, glanced around, and said:
“Looks good.”
I half-joked, “Looks good? That’s all you’ve got to say?”
He shrugged.
Then he dropped it:
“Hey, uh, don’t bother finishing all this. I’m heading to the bar with the guys to watch the game instead. Cancel everything. Tell everyone something came up.”
I stared at him. “You’re ditching your own birthday dinner? Todd, I’ve been planning this for weeks!”
“It’s not a big deal, Claire. Just call them. They’ll understand.”
“They’ll understand? Todd, people are already on their way!”
“I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of the guys,” he said, grabbing his jacket.
I called after him, “You can’t do this, Todd!” But the door slammed.
My Plan for Payback
I stood there, heartbroken and humiliated. All my hard work—wasted? Not a chance.
I grabbed my phone and texted everyone:
Party’s still on! Change of plans—meet us at the bar near our place. Bring your appetite!
Then I loaded all the food into my car and drove straight there.
The Scene at the Bar
The place was packed. Todd was at a table with his buddies, back turned to the door. He didn’t see me.
The bartender looked at my trays. “Uh… can I help you?”
I smiled sweetly. “Just here to share a meal with people who’ll actually appreciate it.”
I set up the feast on a table right in view of Todd’s friends. The smell turned heads immediately.
A man asked, “What’s all this?”
I raised my voice so the whole room could hear:
“This was supposed to be my husband’s birthday dinner. But he ditched me for the game, so I brought the dinner to him!”
The bar erupted in laughter. Todd turned, saw me, and went pale.
“Claire! What the hell are you doing?” he hissed.
I ignored him and called out, “Who wants ham? And there’s cake coming too!”
Enter the Families
Right then, both our families walked in—parents, siblings, cousins. Todd’s mom asked:
“What’s going on, Todd? Why is Claire serving your birthday dinner in a bar?”
Before he could answer, I said:
“Because Todd decided the game was more important than the party he demanded I plan.”
His dad muttered, “How disrespectful.”
My mom grabbed a plate and said, “Well, I’m not wasting good food!”
Soon, everyone was eating, laughing, and enjoying themselves—except Todd. His friends teased him nonstop.
When I brought out the cake, it had a special message in bold frosting:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY SELFISH HUSBAND!
The room howled with laughter. Todd muttered, “Was this really necessary, Claire?”
I smiled. “Absolutely.”
Aftermath
The bartender told me, “Ma’am, you’re a legend. Drinks on the house anytime—without him, of course.”
Back home, Todd whined, “You humiliated me in front of everyone!”
I said, “No, Todd—you humiliated yourself. And don’t expect another homemade meal anytime soon.”
That was two weeks ago. Since then, Todd’s been quieter, more polite. He hasn’t apologized outright, but the sheepish look on his face says enough.
Now he knows—I’m not the kind of wife who’ll just roll over. And that, to me, is the real win.