After six years of marriage, one would think gratitude might develop, but with Todd, that’s never been the case. Every year, I’ve poured my heart into making his birthday special, only for him to disregard it entirely. This year, however, his entitlement reached an all-time high.
Six years of marriage to Todd have been a mix of charm and frustration. While he can be wonderfully charismatic, his sense of entitlement is something I struggle with.
Take last Thanksgiving, for example. Todd suggested we host dinner for both of our families. “Claire,” he said proudly, “we should host Thanksgiving this year.”
“Alright,” I agreed. “How do you want to divide the responsibilities?”
He brushed me off. “Oh, you’re so good at this kind of thing,” he said. “I’ll handle drinks or something—just make sure it’s impressive, okay?”
Despite knowing what was coming, I agreed. For two weeks, I cooked, cleaned, and planned while Todd focused on fantasy football. On Thanksgiving Day, I prepared the turkey, sides, and two pies. Todd’s contribution? Bringing a cooler of beer into the living room.
After dinner, when everyone praised the food and decor, Todd claimed credit: “I’m so glad you all enjoyed it. I wanted this year to be really special.”
I thought I misheard him. “Oh, really?” I asked. “Which part—was it the casserole or the centerpiece?” Naturally, he ignored me. That’s Todd in a nutshell—expecting applause without lifting a finger.
Last year, I put weeks of thought into crafting a personalized photo album for his birthday, filled with photos of our adventures and cherished memories. I was excited to see his reaction. When he unwrapped it, he simply said, “Oh. So, where’s the real gift?”
It wasn’t just his words that hurt—it was the audacity. I had married a man who once wrote me beautiful poetry, yet he couldn’t appreciate a heartfelt gesture. That moment broke something in me. I realized he wasn’t the man I’d fallen in love with anymore.
Then came his 35th birthday—the final straw. Over dinner one evening, Todd casually mentioned his expectations. “Claire, I’m hoping for a big, proper birthday dinner this year,” he said. “Let’s invite the family, my friends, everyone.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to plan it?”
“Of course,” he replied. “You’re so good at this. Just make it decent, okay? Nothing over the top.”
The entitlement was glaring. He believed he deserved an extravagant celebration after everything, despite how dismissive he had been in the past. Yet, I agreed—reluctantly. It was his birthday, after all, and I wanted to give him one last chance.
For two weeks, I poured my heart into organizing Todd’s “decent” birthday dinner. I planned an elegant menu with spinach-stuffed chicken, rosemary potatoes, a charcuterie board of fancy cheeses, and a three-layer chocolate cake adorned with edible gold flakes. Every evening after work, I came home exhausted but kept going—cleaning, arranging, and borrowing extra chairs and tables from our neighbor Janice to ensure everything was perfect.
What did Todd do? Absolutely nothing. One night, he came home, kicked off his shoes, and said, “I’m swamped at work, but you’ve got this, love. You’re amazing at these things.”
By the day of the party, I was running on fumes but determined to make it perfect. The house sparkled, the table was set with matching linens and hand-written name cards, and the food was ready.
Todd walked into the kitchen around noon, barely glanced at the setup, and said, “Looks good. But hey, don’t worry about finishing all this.”
I froze. “What do you mean?”
“I’m heading to the bar to catch the game with the guys. Just cancel the dinner and let everyone know something came up.”
“Cancel? Todd, I’ve spent weeks on this!”
“It’s no big deal,” he said dismissively. “Just text everyone. They’ll understand.”
“Todd, people are already on their way!”
“I really don’t want to embarrass myself in front of the guys,” he muttered before grabbing his jacket and leaving.
I stood there, heartbroken and humiliated. All my effort, time, and money—dismissed like it was nothing. Was this what I was worth to him?
But then, I made a decision. I wasn’t canceling the dinner. If Todd wanted to act like a spoiled brat, fine. But I was going to show him what real embarrassment looked like.
I texted all the guests: “Change of plans—meet at the bar on Main Street near our house. Come hungry!”
I packed up all the food and headed to the bar where Todd and his friends were. When I arrived, the smell of the food caught everyone’s attention. Patrons began whispering and pointing as I set up dish after dish on a nearby table.
Todd didn’t notice me at first, but his friends did. They started chuckling, nudging him until he turned around. His face turned pale.
“Claire! What are you doing?” he hissed, rushing over.
“Oh, just having dinner with people who will actually appreciate it,” I said loudly, making sure the whole bar could hear.
As I served the food, people began clapping and cheering. Just then, Todd’s parents and our families arrived, confused but intrigued.
“What’s going on?” his mom asked.
“Oh, Todd decided the game was more important than the dinner he asked me to organize, so I brought the party to him,” I explained with a smile.
His dad shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
Todd’s friends laughed at his expense while our families dug into the meal. When it was time for cake, I brought out the centerpiece: a three-layer masterpiece with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY SELFISH HUSBAND!” written in bold frosting.
The bar erupted in laughter as I read it aloud. Todd, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to crawl under the table.
“Did you really have to do this?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I replied with a smile.
After the food was gone, the bartender came up to me and said, “You’re a legend. Drinks are on the house—just don’t bring him next time!”
The families left soon after, with Todd’s mom shaking her head in disappointment and my dad giving me a proud nod. On the way home, Todd muttered about feeling “humiliated.”
“No, Todd,” I said firmly. “You embarrassed yourself. Don’t expect another homemade meal anytime soon.”
He didn’t argue.
In the two weeks since, Todd has been surprisingly polite, clearly walking on eggshells. He hasn’t apologized outright, but his behavior says he knows I won’t tolerate his nonsense anymore.
Sometimes, a little public humiliation is the only way to teach someone a lesson. Don’t you agree?
