On their tenth wedding anniversary, Emma’s husband Mark invited her to the swankiest restaurant in town to humiliate her with a cheap salad. Little did he realise that the next night she would make him – and the entire restaurant – pay for her cruelty.
The soft glow of the chandelier flooded the restaurant with a warm golden light. The atmosphere was exquisite, with soft velvet chairs and elegant service.
It was our tenth wedding anniversary, and my husband, Mark, had promised to make it unforgettable. I imagined an evening of pleasure, with exquisite food and sparkling wine.
As we were seated at the table, I noticed the familiar smiles exchanged between the waiters. They seemed to know Mark. He had made a reservation at La Belle Époque, the most expensive restaurant in town. It was a place reserved for momentous occasions, and tonight was going to be one.
Mark held out the menu to me with an impassive smile. ‘Order whatever you want, darling,’ he said, though his eyes gave away something else entirely. I glanced at the menu, filled with exquisite dishes with exorbitant prices, and my breath caught at the descriptions.
‘I think I’ll order the lobster bisque to start, and then the filet mignon,’ I said, feeling the excitement boiling inside me.
Mark gave me a strained smile. “Actually, why don’t you start with a homemade salad? Take it easy. You’re trying to lose weight, right? Maybe then you can wear that red dress I love the next time we come here.”
His words sounded like a slap in the face. I looked around, feeling a hot rush of embarrassment. Was he joking? But the steely gleam in his eyes told me he was serious.
‘Mark, it’s our anniversary,’ I objected softly. ‘I thought…’
‘You thought wrong,’ he interrupted, waving his hand at the waiter. “My wife will have the house salad, and I’ll have the Chateaubriand medium rare. And a bottle of your best red.”
The waiter hesitated, looking at me sympathetically. ‘Very good, sir.’
I swallowed my anger, and the salad in front of me turned into a pathetic piece of greens. Mark savoured every bite of his sumptuous dish, showing how tender the steak was and how rich the sauce was. The wine flowed freely – at least for him. As I sipped my water, each moment of the meal stretched into eternity.
Mark’s controlling actions during dinner were a bitter pill to swallow. He savoured his steak, commenting on every delicious bite, while I picked at my salad.
I tried to remain calm, but anger was simmering in the back of my mind. He ordered a decadent chocolate soufflé for dessert and, without even looking at me, said: ‘She’s finished.’
I felt humiliated. That’s how, on our anniversary, I was treated like something secondary. As he savoured his dessert, I decided I wasn’t going to let it go unnoticed. I would make sure he remembered this anniversary in a bad way. I smiled to myself and a plan matured in my head.
I woke up early the next morning. Mark was still snoring next to me. I got out of bed quietly, ideas swirling in my head. After he left for work, I went on my own. I reached out to friends and arranged a few favours. It was time to turn things around.
I spent a day preparing. First I contacted La Belle Époque and spoke to the manager. I explained my plan and booked the same table for the next evening.
The manager, sympathetic to my situation, agreed to help. I then phoned a friend who worked at the boutique and borrowed the stunning red dress Mark had always mentioned from her.
I also contacted a lawyer friend who helped me set up a personal bank account. She confirmed the details of our financial situation and the details of the emergency fund that Mark had stashed away. Knowing I had access to the money gave me the confidence to move forward.
When everything was ready, I wrote a note for Mark: “Meet me at La Belle Époque at 7pm. Dress decently. – Emma.”
By the time Mark got home, everything was ready. The house was quiet and the note was waiting for him on the kitchen table. He smirked when he found it, probably figuring he was in for another night of indulgence at my expense. But he didn’t know what I had planned.
As I prepared for the evening, I felt a mixture of nerves and excitement. I knew it was brave, but it was necessary. I wanted to reclaim my dignity and show Mark that I wouldn’t be treated like a doormat. It would be an anniversary neither of us would forget, but for very different reasons.
Mark arrived at the restaurant looking smug. I was already seated at a table in the red dress he loved so much. When he sat down, I gave him a sweet, enigmatic smile.
‘What does that mean, Emma?’ – He asked curiously.
‘You’ll see now,’ I replied, beckoning to the waiter. ‘I took the liberty of placing an order for us.’
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. The waiter brought our first course, a lobster bisque. Mark’s eyes widened, but he didn’t utter a word. Then came the filet mignon, perfectly cooked. The best wine in the house was poured, and I watched him grow increasingly perplexed.
‘Emma, I don’t understand,’ he said carefully. “We were just here yesterday. What’s the occasion?”
‘Our anniversary,’ I said, and my voice trailed off sweetly. “A night to remember, right? I don’t want to remember last night. I want to remember this one, and I’m sure you’ll remember it too.”
Mark’s confusion turned to suspicion. He looked around the restaurant, trying to piece things together. I watched him carefully, savouring his unease. The main course was served, and I savoured every bite. Mark, however, barely touched his food, too busy trying to figure out what was going on.
I stood up and clinked my glass, drawing the attention of the entire restaurant. “I apologise to everyone. I have a special announcement to make.”
Mark looked horrified. ‘Emma, what are you doing?’
‘I just wanted to share it with all of you,’ I said, my voice flat and strong. “My husband brought me here last night for our anniversary, but insisted I order a cheap salad and he indulged himself. Tonight I wanted to show him what a real indulgence is.”
A murmur ran through the room. Mark’s face turned beetroot red. ‘Emma, sit down,’ he hissed.
I ignored him. “But that’s not all. Mark, you’ve always prided yourself on being generous and in control. Tonight I paid for our dinner and took the money to the reserve fund you’ve been hiding from me for years.”
His jaw dropped. ‘What, how did you…’
“Oh, Mark, you should know by now that I’m smarter than you think. And that’s not all! Here’s what you all ladies and gentlemen will be pleased to hear: my husband is going to share his fund with you and pay for all your lunches today!”
The colour disappeared from Mark’s face. ‘Emma, that’s not funny.’
‘No, it’s not funny,’ I said, straightening to my full height. ‘But it’s fair.’
I turned to leave, feeling the weight of the past decade fall off my shoulders. As I left, the diners applauded and Mark sat stunned and humiliated.
This is an anniversary he won’t forget. And neither will I.
My husband leaves piles of dirty dishes and refuses to wash them – I once taught him a real lesson
Danielle’s kitchen was once overflowing with dishes, but a playful plot turned it into a place for partnership. Find out how her creative manoeuvre led to clean tables and renewed camaraderie in her marriage.
My name is Danielle, and in my 45 years, I’ve seen a lot. Working as a nurse, I spend ten hours a day making life easier for everyone else, but at home, it’s a different story.
You see, my husband Mark works from home. He makes much more money than I do, which allows him to call himself a ‘real breadwinner.’ That’s his excuse for leaving all the household chores to me.
Every night our kitchen tells a story of desolation. ‘Welcome to Mount Dishmore,’ I mutter as I walk through the door and see a pile of dishes greeting me. It’s like they’re competing for the record for climbing the mountain.
Mark, sitting on the couch, tosses me a casual, ‘Rough day?’ without moving an inch.
‘Yeah, and it just got even harder,’ I reply, looking at the chaos in the sink. Something inside me snaps. Enough is enough.
Every morning I leave a note on the fridge, “Please wash all the dishes you used today. Thank you!” But it can be overlooked. By evening, the kitchen sink becomes a disaster zone. Cups and plates rise erratically, testament to Mark’s culinary adventures throughout the day.
One evening, balancing a frying pan on a wobbly stack of bowls, I asked Mark if he would help me with the dishes. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy doing something?’ – he said, eyes glued to the laptop screen. Apparently, that something was very important. So important that he couldn’t be interrupted for a few minutes to help clear the rubble he’d been contributing to all day.
