Mark promised to make our tenth anniversary unforgettable. He took me to La Belle Époque, the most upscale place in town. I was thrilled. I dressed up, did my hair, and was ready to enjoy a romantic evening.
As I scanned the menu, I smiled and said I’d love the lobster bisque and filet mignon. That’s when he leaned in and said, “How about just a house salad? You’re still trying to lose weight, right? Maybe then you’ll fit into that red dress I love next time.”
My heart sank. I laughed nervously, hoping he was joking. He wasn’t. He waved over the waiter and ordered for me: “She’ll have the house salad. I’ll take the ribeye, medium rare.” He didn’t even look at me.
I sat there, mortified, nibbling on lettuce while he devoured a three-course meal and topped it off with chocolate soufflé. “She’s done,” he told the waiter as he sipped his wine.
But I was already planning something.
The next day, while he was at work, I put my plan into motion. When he came home, the house was quiet. No dinner, no hello. Just a note in the kitchen:
“Meet me at La Belle Époque at 7 PM. Dress nicely. – Emma”
He showed up, dressed sharp and grinning, probably thinking I’d forgiven him. I was already seated in that red dress—the one he said I couldn’t wear.
I smiled, waved him over, then stood up and handed him an envelope. Inside was a receipt—for a prepaid dinner for one, my full-course meal already covered. Next to it was a second note:
“Enjoy watching someone else eat tonight. I’ll be back when you learn what it means to treat your wife with respect.”
Then I turned, walked out, and left him sitting there alone—this time with nothing but a house salad and his own arrogance for company.
