I thought I was being a great wife when I planned an amazing birthday dinner for Todd’s 35th. But just before the guests were about to arrive, he dropped a bombshell—he was ditching me to watch the game at the bar. What happened next? Let’s just say, I got the last laugh.
After six years of marriage, I expected at least a little appreciation. But Todd? He took everything for granted. Every single year, I poured my heart into making his birthday special, but it was always the same—he didn’t seem to care. This year, though, his entitlement hit a whole new level.
Let me tell you about Todd. When we first met, he was charming and thoughtful. He used to write me poetry—yes, poetry! But over time, his charm faded, and what was once sweetness turned into a sense of entitlement that started to drive me crazy.
I’ll never forget last Thanksgiving. Todd had the brilliant idea to host dinner for both our families. “Claire,” he said with a smile, “let’s host Thanksgiving this year.”
“Sounds great,” I replied. “How are we dividing the work?”
He waved me off like I was asking something ridiculous. “Oh, you’re so much better at that stuff. I’ll handle drinks or something. Just make it memorable, okay?”
I should’ve seen the red flags. For the next two weeks, I did all the planning and organizing. I bought the groceries, decorated the house, and even baked two pies. Todd? He sat on the couch, occasionally asking, “You need me to pick up anything?” The big day arrived, and I roasted the turkey, made side dishes, and set the table. Todd’s contribution? Carrying a cooler of beer to the living room. That’s it.
During dinner, as everyone raved about the food and decorations, Todd soaked up the credit. “Glad you all love it,” he grinned. “I wanted it to be special this year.”
I nearly dropped my fork. “Really, Todd?” I asked. “What part did you want special? The centerpiece or the green bean casserole?”
Of course, he just ignored me. That’s Todd for you—he wanted the credit, but never the responsibility.
Last year, I made him a personalized photo album for his birthday, filled with memories from our trips and special moments. His response? “Oh. So, where’s the real gift?” Ouch. That one hurt. The man I married used to treasure thoughtful gestures, but now he acted like they were nothing. It was a wake-up call for me.
But this year? This year was the final straw.
Todd had insisted on a “big, proper birthday dinner.” “Invite everyone—family, friends, my buddies,” he casually said over dinner. “Make it decent. I don’t want to be embarrassed.”
I should’ve said no, but instead, I threw myself into the planning. For two weeks, I worked non-stop to create a feast: stuffed chicken, rosemary potatoes, charcuterie, and a three-layer chocolate cake decorated with edible gold flakes. Todd’s contribution? Zilch. Every night, he’d come home, pat me on the back, and say, “You’ve got this, babe,” before plopping onto the couch.
Finally, the big day arrived. The house looked like it was straight out of a lifestyle magazine. The table was set, the candles lit, and the food was perfectly prepped. As I added the final touches to the cake, Todd wandered into the kitchen, scrolling through his phone. He barely looked at the spread.
“Looks good,” he muttered, grabbing a soda. Then, as if it was no big deal, he said, “Hey, 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?”
“It’s not a big deal,” he shrugged. “Just tell everyone we’re busy.”
Anger boiled up inside me, but I kept it cool. “Fine,” I said. 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 the food into the car and headed to the bar.
When I arrived, Todd was sitting with his buddies, oblivious. I set up a table in full view of everyone, unpacking dish after dish. The delicious aroma filled the air, and soon, other people in the bar started to notice.
“What’s going on here?” someone asked.
I smiled and said loudly, “This was supposed to be my husband’s birthday dinner. But he ditched me to watch the game, so I thought, why waste all this food?”
The room erupted with laughter. That’s when Todd noticed me. He stormed over, whisper-yelling, “Claire! What the hell are you doing?”
I ignored him and started serving the plates to everyone. Just then, the door swung open, and in walked his parents, my parents, and all the other guests. Todd’s mom, never one to mince words, marched right up to him. “What’s going on, Todd?”
“Oh, I’d love to explain!” I jumped in. “Todd decided the game was more important than the birthday dinner he demanded. So I brought it to him!”
His dad shook his head in disappointment. “Disrespectful,” he muttered. Meanwhile, my mom grabbed a plate. “This smells amazing! Let’s eat.”
Todd’s friends couldn’t help but laugh at his expense. The bar quickly turned into a full-blown party. When I brought out the cake, it was the showstopper. On top, in big, bold letters, I had written: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY SELFISH HUSBAND!”
By the time we got home, Todd was fuming. “You humiliated me!” he yelled.
“No, Todd,” I said calmly. “You humiliated yourself. And don’t expect another homemade dinner anytime soon.”
It’s been two weeks since that night. Todd hasn’t exactly apologized, but he’s been unusually polite—probably because he’s terrified I might pull another stunt like that. One thing is clear: I’m not the kind of wife who’ll let him walk all over me anymore. And if nothing else, that’s a win in my book.
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