“I thought planning a grand dinner party for Todd’s 35th birthday was the perfect way to show my love. Little did I know, he’d ditch it last minute to watch a game at the bar. What happened next? Let’s just say, I turned the tables—and the night—around.

After six years of marriage, you’d expect some gratitude. But not Todd. Every year, I poured my heart into his birthday, and every year, he took it for granted. This time, though, his audacity hit a new high.

When we first met, Todd was charming and thoughtful—the kind of guy who’d write me poetry. But over the years, that charm faded, replaced by entitlement. He wanted the credit for everything without lifting a finger. Take Thanksgiving last year: Todd suggested hosting both our families, but when it came to the work, he waved it off with, “You’re so much better at that stuff.” On the day, while I cooked and cleaned, he carried a cooler of beer into the living room and called it a contribution.This year, for his birthday, Todd demanded a “big, proper dinner” and left all the planning to me. For weeks, I prepared a feast—stuffed chicken, rosemary potatoes, charcuterie, and a decadent three-layer cake. Todd’s involvement? Zero.On the big day, just as I finished setting up the picture-perfect spread, Todd walked into the kitchen, barely glanced at my efforts, and casually said, “Cancel everything. I’m heading to the bar to watch the game.”

Stunned, I managed to stay calm and said, “Fine.” But as he left, I made a decision: if Todd wanted to act selfish, I’d let him—on full display.

I texted the guests, packed up the food, and headed to the bar. When I arrived, I set up a table right in the middle of the room, unpacking dish after dish. The aroma caught everyone’s attention, and soon, patrons were asking what was going on.

“This was supposed to be my husband’s birthday dinner,” I said loudly. “But since he ditched me, I brought it to him!”

Laughter erupted, and that’s when Todd noticed me. He rushed over, whispering angrily, “Claire, what are you doing?”Ignoring him, I started serving plates. Moments later, our guests—and even his parents—walked in. His mom marched straight to him, demanding an explanation. “Todd thought the game was more important than the dinner he insisted on,” I explained cheerfully.

The bar turned into a full-blown party. When I brought out the cake, it stole the show. Written on top were the words: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY SELFISH HUSBAND!”

By the time we got home, Todd was livid. “You humiliated me!” he yelled.

“No, Todd,” I replied. “You humiliated yourself.”

Two weeks later, he still hasn’t apologized, but he’s been unusually polite—likely worried I’ll pull another stunt. One thing’s for sure: I’m no longer the wife who’ll let him walk all over me. And that, in my book, is a win.”