I Cooked a Festive Dinner for 20 People for My Husband’s Birthday — Then He Ditched Me to Celebrate at a Bar

I believed I was being a thoughtful wife, putting together a lively dinner for my husband Todd’s 35th birthday. But just as the guests were about to arrive, he casually informed me that he was skipping the celebration to catch the game at a bar. What happened after that? Let’s just say, I had the last word.

You’d think that after six years of being married, a person would learn to show a little appreciation. Not Todd, though. Year after year, I put my whole heart into making his birthday special, only for him to brush it aside like it was nothing.

This time, however, his sense of entitlement reached a whole new extreme.

Six years. That’s how long Todd and I had been together as husband and wife.

Don’t get me wrong—our marriage isn’t entirely terrible. When Todd puts in the effort, he can be incredibly charming, and we’ve had plenty of good times. But there’s one thing about him that makes me lose my mind with frustration.

His entitlement.

Take last Thanksgiving, for instance. Todd had this grand idea to host dinner for both sides of our family. One morning at breakfast, he shared his revelation, grinning like he had just cracked the code to world peace.

“Claire,” he announced, “we should be the ones to host Thanksgiving this year.”

“Alright,” I replied. “That sounds lovely. How are we splitting the responsibilities?”

He waved his hand dismissively, as if I’d suggested something completely unreasonable.

“Oh, you’re way better at that stuff than I am,” he replied. “I’ll take care of… I don’t know, the drinks or something. Just make sure it’s great, okay?”

I should have known better, but I went along with it.

For two full weeks, I was buried in planning and preparation while Todd played fantasy football and occasionally asked, “Need me to grab anything?”

When the day arrived, I roasted a turkey, prepared side dishes, and even baked two pies.

And Todd? His only contribution was carrying a cooler of beer into the living room. That’s it.

After everyone had eaten, and the compliments started rolling in about the food and decorations, Todd decided it was time to take credit.

“Glad you all enjoyed it,” he said, flashing a smug smile. “I wanted this year to be extra special.”

I thought I had misheard him.

“Oh, really?” I asked. “Which part, exactly? The homemade stuffing or the floral centerpiece?”

He acted like he didn’t hear me, of course.

And that, in a nutshell, is Todd. He loves receiving praise but refuses to put in any work.

Then there was his birthday last year.

I spent weeks crafting a personalized photo album, carefully selecting pictures from our trips and meaningful moments together. I couldn’t wait for him to see it.

But when he flipped through it, he barely reacted. “Oh. Cool. So, where’s my actual gift?”

It wasn’t just his words that hurt. It was the sheer audacity of them.

This was the same man who once wrote me poetry, yet now, he couldn’t be bothered to appreciate a thoughtful gesture. Something inside me cracked that day.

That was when I realized the man I had married wasn’t the same man standing in front of me anymore.

And then came his 35th birthday—the moment that pushed me over the edge.

We were having dinner when Todd casually brought up his expectations.

“Claire, I want a proper birthday dinner this year,” he said. “Invite my family, my friends, the whole group.”

I arched an eyebrow. “So, you mean you want me to handle it?”

“Well, yeah,” he responded. “You’re good at this kind of thing. Just make it nice, alright? I don’t want to be embarrassed.”

“Nice?” I repeated.

“Yeah, just don’t overdo it. Keep it classy.”

Do you see the problem here? Do you see how he expects to have a grand birthday celebration, even after treating me so poorly last time?

Honestly, I wanted to say no. But despite everything, I decided to go ahead with it. After all, birthdays are meant to be special—even if he didn’t deserve it.

For the next two weeks, I threw myself into the preparations. If he wanted something “classy,” I would give him just that.

I put together an impressive menu: spinach-stuffed chicken, rosemary potatoes, a fancy charcuterie board with cheeses I could barely pronounce, and a towering three-layer chocolate cake as the showstopper.

Every evening after work, I came home, tied my hair back, and got to work. I scrubbed, organized, and prepped. I even borrowed extra chairs and a folding table from our neighbor, Janice, to ensure there was enough seating for everyone.

Todd’s contribution? Nothing.

“I’ve been slammed at work,” he said one night, kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto the couch. “But you’ve got this, babe. You’re a pro at these things.”

A pro? I was so exhausted I could have cried.

But instead of snapping, I simply smiled and said, “Yeah, I’ve got this.”

The day of the party arrived.

I woke up early, determined to make everything perfect.

The house gleamed. The dining table was elegantly arranged with matching linens and handwritten name cards. The appetizers were chilling, the main course was simmering, and the cake sparkled with edible gold flakes.

Yes, I went that far.

Todd strolled into the kitchen around noon, phone in hand, barely glancing at all the effort I had put in.

“Looks good,” he muttered, pulling open the fridge to grab a soda.

“Looks good?” I repeated, half-teasing but also hoping for some real appreciation.

“Yeah,” he said, shutting the fridge door. Then, like it was an afterthought, he added, “Oh, by the way, don’t bother finishing everything.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m heading to the bar with the guys to watch the game. Just cancel the party. Tell everyone something came up.”

“You’re what?” I asked, my voice rising. “Todd, I’ve spent weeks planning this!”

“It’s not a big deal, Claire,” he said with a shrug. “Just tell them we’re busy or something. They’ll understand.”

“Understand?” My tone sharpened. “Todd, people are already on their way! You told me to make this ‘decent,’ and now you’re just leaving?”

“I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of the guys,” he replied dismissively, ending the conversation.

Then, without another word, he grabbed his jacket and walked out.

I stood there, stunned.

I had poured my energy, time, and money into this dinner, and he just threw it away like it was nothing.

Cancel everything? After all the effort I had put in?

But more than anything, I felt utterly humiliated.

Was this really how I was going to let him treat me?

No. Not anymore.

At that moment, I made a decision.

I grabbed my phone and sent a group message to all the guests:

Change of plans! Party’s still happening—meet us at the bar near our place. Bring your appetite!

Then, I got to work.

I packed up the food, loaded it into the car, and drove straight to the bar Todd had mentioned.

When I arrived, the place was bustling. I scanned the room until I spotted Todd, laughing with his buddies, completely unaware.

I picked a table nearby and began unpacking the food. The rich aroma caught people’s attention.

“What’s all this?” a man asked.

I raised my voice so everyone could hear. “Oh, this was supposed to be my husband’s birthday dinner. But since he decided to ditch me, I figured I’d bring the party to him.”

The room buzzed with murmurs and laughter.

Todd turned, his face going pale.

I just smiled.

And let’s just say—he never made that mistake again.