After six years of marriage, you’d think Todd would appreciate me.
But nope — he brought a beer cooler to our party and took credit for everything I did.
Then for his 35th birthday, he dropped the bomb:
“I want something big. Classy. Don’t make it weird.”
Translation? You plan it all, Claire — and make me look good.
So I did. I worked after hours, borrowed chairs, hand-lettered name cards, made a gold-flaked cake.
Todd? Sat on the couch and said, “You’ve got this.”
And I did — until the big day came.
The house looked like a magazine spread. Todd walked in, barely looked at it, and said:
“Actually, cancel everything. I’m going to the bar with the guys. Just tell people something came up.”
I stood there — heartbroken, humiliated… and done being the doormat.
So I packed everything up and took the party to him.
I texted the guests:
Change of plans. Dinner’s at the bar on Main. Come hungry.
I marched into that bar, arms full of food. Todd didn’t even notice — until the smell turned every head.
I set up right in his line of sight. Someone asked, “What’s all this?”
I smiled.
“This was supposed to be my husband’s birthday dinner — but he bailed. So I brought the food to him.”
The place exploded with laughter. Todd turned around, horrified.
Then his entire family walked in — and my parents.
His mom asked, “Why is Claire setting up your birthday dinner here?”
I answered cheerfully:
“He said dinner wasn’t that serious. So I made it casual.”
Everyone dug in — even strangers. Todd’s friends howled. Then I brought out the cake:
“Happy Birthday to My Self-Absorbed Husband!”
I read it aloud. The bar roared. Todd? Not so much.
“Claire, was this really necessary?”
“Absolutely.”
On the way home, he fumed.
“You humiliated me!”
I shrugged.
“No, Todd. You embarrassed yourself. And by the way — don’t expect dinner again anytime soon.”
It’s been two weeks. He’s quiet. Polite. Careful.
Good. He should be.
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