I really thought I was being a good wife this year. I planned a beautiful, classy dinner for my husband Todd’s 35th birthday. I wanted it to be perfect. But right before the guests were about to arrive, Todd told me he was ditching the party… to go watch a game at a bar.
What happened next? Let’s just say I made sure his birthday would be unforgettable.
You’d think that after six years of marriage, a man would learn a little gratitude. But not Todd. Every single year, I put my heart and soul into his birthday, and every year, he takes it for granted like it’s nothing.
This year, though? Oh, this year he pushed it to a whole new level.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Our marriage hasn’t been completely awful. Todd can be sweet and charming—when he wants to be. We’ve had some amazing moments together. But there’s one thing about him that has always driven me absolutely insane.
His entitlement.
Example? Thanksgiving last year.
One random morning over breakfast, Todd suddenly looked up from his coffee with this “big idea” face.
“Claire, I think we should host Thanksgiving this year,” he said proudly, like he’d just invented the holiday himself.
“Okay,” I replied cautiously. “That sounds nice. How are we dividing up the responsibilities?”
He just waved his hand at me, like I’d suggested something absurd.
“Oh, you’re so much better at that stuff,” he said. “I’ll handle… I don’t know, drinks or something. Just make it memorable, alright?”
Memorable? Sure. Memorable for me running around like a lunatic while he did nothing.
For two weeks, I planned and prepped while Todd sat on the couch playing fantasy football. Occasionally, he’d shout into the kitchen, “You need me to pick up anything?” as if buying a bag of chips would save me from doing all the work.
On the big day, I cooked a perfectly roasted turkey, made multiple sides, and baked not one but two pies.
Todd? He carried a cooler of beer into the living room. That’s it.
When the guests started praising the food and decorations, Todd smiled like he was taking home an award.
“Glad you all love it,” he said proudly. “I wanted it to be special this year.”
I nearly dropped my fork.
“Oh, really?” I asked sweetly. “What part did you want to be special—the green bean casserole or the centerpiece?”
He ignored me. Classic Todd. Always ready to take credit, never ready to do the work.
Then came his birthday last year.
I spent weeks working on a personalized photo album, filled with pictures from all our trips and sweet moments. I imagined the look on his face when he opened it.
He flipped through the pages, then said flatly, “Oh. So… where’s the real gift?”
I can’t even describe the sting of that moment. I’d married a man who once wrote me poetry, and now he couldn’t even appreciate something heartfelt. That day, something in me cracked.
And then came his 35th birthday—the final straw.
One evening at dinner, he looked at me casually.
“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,” he said. “You’re good at this stuff. Just make it decent, alright? I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of everyone.”
“Decent?” I repeated.
“Yeah, just… don’t go overboard. Keep it classy.”
Classy. Sure. After all the ungrateful stunts he’d pulled, he still thought he could demand things from me. But against my better judgment, I agreed.
For the next two weeks, I worked like crazy. If he wanted classy, I’d give him classy.
The menu was perfect—spinach-stuffed chicken, rosemary potatoes, a fancy charcuterie board, and a three-layer chocolate cake topped with edible gold flakes. I borrowed extra chairs and a folding table from our neighbor Janice so no one would feel cramped.
Todd? He did absolutely nothing.
“I’m swamped at work,” he said one night, throwing himself onto the couch. “But you’ve got this, babe. You’re good at these things.”
I wanted to scream. But instead, I smiled and said, “Yeah. I’ve got this.”
The big day arrived.
The house sparkled. The table was set with matching linens and little handwritten name cards. The food was ready, the candles were lit, and I was feeling proud.
Around noon, Todd strolled into the kitchen, phone in hand, barely glancing at the feast I’d spent weeks preparing.
“Looks good,” he muttered, grabbing a soda.
“Looks good?” I repeated, hoping he’d at least acknowledge my effort.
“Yeah. But hey… don’t bother finishing all this.”
I froze. “What do you mean?”
“I’m heading to the bar with the guys to watch the game instead. Cancel everything. Tell everyone something came up.”
“You’re ditching your own birthday dinner?” I asked in disbelief. “Todd, I’ve been planning this for weeks!”
“It’s not a big deal,” he shrugged. “Just call everyone and say we’re busy. They’ll understand.”
“They’ll understand?” I snapped. “Todd, people are already on their way! You told me to make this decent and now you’re leaving?”
“I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of the guys,” he said. Then he grabbed his jacket and walked out.
I stood there, furious, humiliated, and heartbroken.
Cancel everything? After all the work I’d done? No.
I took a deep breath. You’re not doing this to me again, Todd.
So I made a new plan.
I texted every guest:
Party’s still on! Change of plans—meet us at the bar near our place. Bring your appetite!
Then I loaded every single dish into the car and drove to the bar Todd had mentioned.
The place was packed. I spotted Todd sitting with his friends, his back to the door, completely unaware.
The bartender raised an eyebrow when he saw me carrying in trays of food.
I smiled. “I’m here to share a meal with people who’ll actually appreciate it.”
I set up everything at a table right in Todd’s line of sight. The smell of the food filled the room. People started asking questions.
“This was supposed to be my husband’s birthday dinner,” I announced loudly. “But he ditched me to come here, so I brought the dinner to him!”
The bar erupted in laughter. Todd finally turned around, his face draining of color.
“Claire! What the hell are you doing?” he hissed.
I ignored him. “Who wants ham? There’s cake coming too!”
Right then, both our families walked in. Todd’s mom looked around, confused. “Why are we eating in a bar?”
I grinned. “Because Todd decided watching a game was more important than the dinner he made me plan. So… here we are!”
Todd’s dad muttered, “How disrespectful.” My mom, on the other hand, grabbed a plate. “Well, I’m not letting good food go to waste.”
Soon, everyone was eating, laughing, and enjoying themselves—except Todd. His friends were snickering, saying they’d never let him live this down.
Then I brought out the cake. In big bold letters, it read:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY SELFISH HUSBAND!
The whole bar roared with laughter. Todd muttered, “Was this really necessary?”
I smiled sweetly. “Absolutely.”
The bartender called me a legend and offered me free drinks anytime—without Todd. My dad gave me a proud nod. Even Todd’s mom told him he could’ve done better.
At home later, Todd sulked. “Claire, you humiliated me in front of everyone!”
“No, Todd,” I said calmly. “You humiliated yourself. Don’t expect another homemade meal anytime soon.”
It’s been two weeks. Todd’s been unusually polite and careful with his requests, almost like he’s afraid I’ll embarrass him again. He hasn’t apologized, but I don’t need him to.
Now he knows—I’m not the wife who’ll roll over and take his nonsense anymore. And honestly? That’s a win for me.