I thought I was being the best wife ever, planning a big birthday celebration for Todd’s 35th. I spent days working on everything, and just when the guests were about to arrive, Todd dropped a bombshell: he was skipping his own party to watch a game at the bar. Well, let’s just say, I had the last laugh.
You’d think after six years of marriage, Todd would have learned to appreciate me. But no. Every single year, I poured my heart into making his birthday special, and every single year, he acted like it was no big deal. But this year? His selfishness reached a whole new level.
Let me tell you about Todd. When we first met, he was charming, thoughtful, the kind of guy who would write me poetry just to make me smile. I remember when he surprised me with a handwritten poem for my birthday. It was sweet, and I thought, “Wow, I really found someone special.” But as the years went by, that charm faded, and all that was left was a guy who thought he deserved everything without lifting a finger. And I let him get away with it—for way too long.
Like that Thanksgiving when Todd had the brilliant idea that we should host dinner for both our families. “Claire,” he said, flashing his usual smile, “Let’s host Thanksgiving this year. I think it’ll be fun!”
At first, I was excited. “Sounds good! How should we split up the work?”
He waved me off like I had asked for something unreasonable. “Oh, you’re so much better at that stuff. I’ll handle the drinks. Just make sure it’s memorable, okay?”
It should’ve been a red flag. For two whole weeks, I planned, cooked, and prepped for the big day while Todd lounged on the couch, occasionally asking, “Need me to pick up anything?” On the day of the dinner, I roasted a turkey, made side dishes, and even baked two pies. Todd’s “contribution”? Carrying a cooler of beer to the living room. That’s it.
As our families praised the food and decorations, Todd beamed like he’d done it all. “Glad you all love it,” he said, with that grin I knew so well. “I really wanted this year to be special.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I stared at him, holding my fork. “Really, Todd? What part did you want special? The centerpiece, or the green bean casserole?”
He just ignored me. Typical Todd—taking all the credit without doing any of the work.
And then there was last year, when I gave him a thoughtful, personalized photo album for his birthday. It was filled with pictures from our travels and moments we shared. His response? “Oh. So, where’s the real gift?” It hurt, especially since Todd had once been so thoughtful. I thought maybe he’d lost sight of what mattered, but I was wrong. He just didn’t care anymore.
But this year, he went too far.
Todd demanded a “big, proper birthday dinner” for his 35th. “Invite everyone—family, friends, my buddies,” he said, casually over dinner. “Make it decent. I don’t want to be embarrassed.”
I should’ve said no. I really should’ve. But instead, I threw myself into planning. I worked for days, preparing stuffed chicken, rosemary potatoes, a charcuterie board, and a three-layer chocolate cake topped with edible gold flakes. Todd didn’t lift a finger. Every night, he’d come home from work, plop down on the couch, and say, “You’ve got this, babe.”
Finally, the big day arrived. The house was decorated, the candles were lit, the food was ready. As I was finishing up the cake, Todd wandered into the kitchen, phone in hand, barely noticing the spread I’d prepared.
“Looks good,” he mumbled, grabbing a soda from the fridge. Then, as casually as if he were announcing the weather, he added, “I’m heading to the bar to watch the game. Cancel everything.”
I froze. “You’re ditching your own birthday dinner?”
“It’s no big deal,” he said with a shrug. “Just tell everyone we’re busy.”
My blood boiled. But I didn’t argue. “Fine,” I said, keeping my voice calm. 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 the food into the car and headed straight to the bar.
When I walked in, Todd was sitting with his buddies, completely unaware. I found a table in plain sight of everyone and began setting up the feast. The smell of the food immediately caught the attention of nearby patrons.
“What’s this about?” one of them asked.
I stood tall and smiled. “Oh, this was supposed to be my husband’s birthday dinner. But he ditched me for the game, so I figured, why waste the food?”
The entire bar erupted in laughter. Todd finally noticed me and stormed over, his face red with anger. “Claire! What the hell are you doing?”
I ignored him and continued serving plates to the bar patrons. A few moments later, the door swung open, and in walked our families—his parents, my parents, and the guests. Todd’s mom marched up to him, clearly confused. “What’s going on, Todd?”
“Oh, I’d love to explain!” I called out with a grin. “Todd decided watching the game was more important than his birthday dinner, so I brought it to him!”
His dad shook his head in disappointment. “That’s disrespectful,” he muttered. Meanwhile, my mom grabbed a plate, beaming. “The food smells amazing! Let’s eat.”
Todd’s friends couldn’t help but laugh at his expense. Before long, the bar turned into a full-blown birthday party. And when I brought out the cake, it was the star of the show. 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!”
“No, Todd,” I said, my voice calm. “You humiliated yourself. Don’t expect me to make another homemade dinner anytime soon.”
It’s been two weeks since that night. Todd hasn’t apologized, but he’s been much more polite. He probably knows I’m not someone he can walk all over anymore. And honestly, that’s the win I was looking for.
So, what do you think? Have you ever been in a situation where you had to stand up for yourself? Let me know in the comments!
