I thought I was being a thoughtful wife by organizing a festive dinner for my husband Todd’s 35th birthday. But just as the guests were about to arrive, he announced he’d be skipping the party to watch the game at a bar. What happened next? Let’s just say, I had the last laugh.
You’d think six years of marriage would teach someone gratitude, but not Todd. Year after year, I poured my heart into making his birthdays special, only for him to treat them as if they didn’t matter.
This year, though, his entitlement reached a whole new level.
Six years. That’s how long we’ve been married.
Don’t get me wrong—our relationship isn’t all bad. Todd can be charming when he tries, and we’ve shared some wonderful moments together. But one thing about him drives me absolutely crazy.
His sense of entitlement.
Take last Thanksgiving, for example. Todd decided we should host dinner for both of our families. He dropped the idea on me over breakfast, grinning like he’d just come up with the solution to world peace.
“Claire,” he said, “I think we should host Thanksgiving this year.”
“Alright,” I replied. “How are we splitting the work?”
He waved me off like I’d suggested something absurd. “Oh, you’re way better at that stuff. I’ll handle… drinks or something. Just make it nice, okay?”
I should’ve known better, but I agreed.
For two weeks, I planned, prepped, and cleaned while Todd played fantasy football, occasionally asking, “Need me to grab anything?”
On the big day, I cooked a full Thanksgiving feast: turkey, sides, and even two pies.
Todd? He carried a cooler of beer into the living room. That was it.
After dinner, as everyone complimented the food and decor, Todd took it upon himself to soak up all the praise.
“Glad you all enjoyed it,” he said. “I wanted this year to be special.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Oh, really?” I asked. “What part did you want special? The centerpiece or the casserole?”
He ignored me, of course.
That’s Todd in a nutshell: always ready to take credit without lifting a finger.
Then there was his birthday last year.
I’d spent weeks creating a custom photo album filled with memories from our travels and special moments. I couldn’t wait to see his reaction.
When he opened it, he flipped through the pages and said, “Oh. So, where’s the real gift?”
It wasn’t just his words—it was the audacity.
I’d married a man who once wrote me love poems, and now he couldn’t appreciate a heartfelt gift. Something broke in me that day.
I realized he wasn’t the man I thought I married.
And then came his 35th birthday—the final straw.
One evening, Todd casually shared his plans.
“Claire, I want a proper birthday dinner this year,” he said. “Invite the family, my friends—everyone.”
“You mean you want me to plan it?” I asked.
“Obviously,” he said. “You’re good at these things. Just keep it decent. Don’t embarrass me.”
“Decent?” I repeated.
“Yeah, nothing too fancy. Just classy enough.”
His entitlement was outrageous. He had the nerve to demand a party after how he’d acted the year before?
I didn’t want to agree, but I decided to give him one more chance. It was his birthday, after all.
For the next two weeks, I threw myself into planning the perfect dinner. If Todd wanted “classy,” I’d deliver.
I crafted an elegant menu: spinach-stuffed chicken, rosemary potatoes, a charcuterie board with fancy cheeses, and a three-layer chocolate cake topped with edible gold flakes.
Every night, I worked tirelessly to clean, organize, and prepare while Todd did nothing.
“You’re so good at this,” he’d say, kicking back on the couch. “I’m swamped with work.”
On the day of the party, I woke up early to make everything perfect. The house was spotless, the table was set with handwritten name cards, and the food was ready to impress.
Todd wandered into the kitchen around noon, barely glancing at my work.
“Looks good,” he mumbled, grabbing a soda.
“Looks good?” I repeated, half-hoping for a genuine compliment.
“Yeah,” he said casually. Then, as if it was no big deal, he added, “But, uh, don’t bother finishing everything. I’m heading to the bar with the guys to watch the game. Just cancel the party.”
“What?” I asked, stunned. “You’re ditching your own birthday dinner?”
“It’s not a big deal,” he shrugged. “Tell everyone something came up. They’ll understand.”
“People are already on their way, Todd! You told me to make this decent, and now you’re leaving?”
“I don’t want to embarrass myself,” he said, grabbing his jacket.
Then he walked out the door.
I stood there, heartbroken and humiliated. Weeks of effort dismissed like it was nothing. But more than anything, I felt furious.
Cancel everything? No. If Todd wanted to act like a child, I’d treat him like one.
I sent a group text to the guests:
“Change of plans! Meet us at the bar instead. Bring your appetite!”
Then I loaded all the food into the car and headed to the bar Todd mentioned.
When I arrived, the place was packed. Todd was sitting with his friends, completely oblivious.
I unpacked the dishes near the bar, filling the air with the aroma of a feast. Curious patrons gathered around.
“What’s all this?” someone asked.
“This was supposed to be my husband’s birthday dinner,” I said loudly. “But since he decided to ditch me, I thought I’d bring the dinner to him!”
Laughter erupted as Todd turned to see me.
“Claire! What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Oh, just serving people who’ll actually appreciate this meal,” I replied sweetly.
Soon, his parents, my parents, and the rest of the guests arrived, confused but amused. Todd’s mom asked, “Why is Claire serving dinner in a bar?”
“Oh, I’d love to explain!” I said. “Todd decided his friends were more important than the party he demanded, so I brought the dinner to him!”
Todd’s face turned red as everyone helped themselves to the food. By the time I brought out the cake, the bar was in full party mode.
The cake read:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY SELFISH HUSBAND!
The room erupted in laughter, but Todd wasn’t amused.
“Was this really necessary?” he muttered.
“Absolutely,” I replied.
When it was all over, the bartender grinned. “Drinks on the house if you ever come back—without him.”
Todd sulked the whole way home, complaining about being humiliated. But I made it clear: “No, Todd. You humiliated yourself.”
It’s been two weeks since that night, and Todd’s been unusually polite. He hasn’t apologized, but his sheepish behavior says it all.
I guess he finally realized I’m not someone to take for granted. And that, for me, is a win.
What would you have done if you were in my shoes?
