I thought I was being a good wife by throwing a celebratory dinner party for my husband Todd’s 35th birthday. But just before the guests were to arrive, he told me he was skipping the party and going to the bar to watch the game. What happened next? Let’s just say I was left with the last laugh.
You would think six years of marriage would teach a person a little gratitude, but not Todd. Every year I put all my heart and soul into his birthday party and he took it all for granted.
But this year, his sense of self-worth reached a new level.
Six years. That’s how long Todd and I have been married.
Don’t get me wrong, our relationship isn’t always bad. Todd can be charming when he wants to be, and we’ve had some great moments together. But there is one thing about him that completely pisses me off.
His sense of entitlement.
Take last Christmas, for example. Todd offered to throw a dinner party for both of our families. He announced it over breakfast, smiling as if he’d solved world hunger.
‘Claire,’ he said, ’I think we should have Christmas this year.’
‘Okay,’ I replied. – ‘That sounds like a good idea. How are we going to divide up the chores?’
He brushed it off as if I’d asked him to do a headstand.
‘Oh, you’re much better at these things,’ he said. – ‘I’ll take care of the drinks or something. Make it memorable, okay?’
I should have understood, but I agreed.
For two months I planned and cooked while Todd played fantasy football and occasionally asked me, ‘Is there anything you need to buy?’
On the day of dinner, I roasted a turkey, made side dishes, and even baked two pies.
And Todd? He brought a beer cooler into the living room. And that was it.
After dinner, when everyone was praising the food and decorating, Todd decided to take all the credit.
‘Glad you like it,’ he said. – ‘I wanted this year to be special.’
I thought I’d misheard.
‘Oh, really?’ – I asked. – ‘What exactly did you want to be special? The green bean casserole or the centrepiece?’
He ignored me, of course.
And that’s Todd in a nutshell. He wants credit without lifting a finger.
Then there was last year, his birthday.
I spent weeks creating a personalised photo album, filling it with photos from our travels and special moments together. I couldn’t wait to see his reaction when he unpacked it.
But when he finished looking through the pages, he simply said: ‘О. Where’s the real present?’
It wasn’t just his words that hurt, it was the sheer audacity of it.
I married a man who once wrote me poetry and now can’t appreciate a sincere gesture. That moment shattered something in me.
I realised he was no longer the man I had fallen in love with.
And then came his 35th birthday. The last straw.
We were having dinner when Todd calmly informed me of his plans.
‘Claire, this year I want a big, real birthday dinner,’ he said. – ‘Invite the family, my friends, everyone.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean I should organise everything?’
‘Well, yeah,’ he said. – ‘You’re good at that. Do something decent, okay? I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of everyone.’
‘Decent?’ – I repeated.
‘Yeah, just don’t go overboard. Do it in moderation.’
See that dignity? See how he thinks he deserves a party for his birthday, despite how he hurt me with his words last time?
Honestly, I didn’t want to agree, but I decided to give him another chance. After all, it was his birthday and I wanted to make it special, even if he didn’t deserve it.
For two weeks, I dedicated myself to organising ‘a big, real dinner for Todd’s birthday’. If he wanted restraint, I would provide it for him.
I put together an impressive menu with spinach-stuffed chicken, rosemary potatoes, cheeses I couldn’t pronounce, and a three-layer chocolate cake that would be the highlight.
Every day after work I would come home, tie my hair up and start cleaning, organising and cooking. I even borrowed extra chairs and a folding table from our neighbour, Janice, so everyone could sit down.
Todd? He didn’t do anything.
‘I’m at work,’ he said one evening, kicking off his shoes and plopping down on the couch. – ‘But you’ll get through this, honey. You’re good at it.’
Good at it? I was so tired I could have cried.
But instead of exploding, I smiled and said: ‘Yeah, I can handle it.’
The day of the party finally arrived.
I got up early, determined to make everything perfect.
The house was spotless. The table was set with perfect tablecloths and little handwritten name cards. The appetisers were in the fridge, the main courses were languishing and the cake was decorated with edible gold flakes.
Yes, I went for it.
Todd walked into the kitchen around noon, leafing through his phone as usual. He barely noticed the food spread.
‘Looks good,’ he muttered, opening the fridge and pulling out a soda.
‘Looks good?’ – I repeated, half-jokingly, half-seriously hoping he’d notice my effort.