I raised my wine glass in the crowded, expensive restaurant and made a toast to my husband’s favorite person: himself.
For fifteen years, every anniversary gift was really for him. A top-of-the-line grill I never used. Golf clubs fitted for his perfect swing.
This year’s insult was a three-thousand-dollar drone he unveiled at dinner, a cold, mechanical monument to his own hobbies.
His purchases weren’t just thoughtless; they were withdrawals from our future, transactions proving my wants didn’t matter.
He never understood my words, so I decided to speak the only language he respected.
After years of playing his game, he was about to discover what a truly selfish “gift for us” felt like when I became fluent in his language of expensive, transactional revenge.
The Gathering Storm: The Anniversary Countdown
The final week of April always arrives with a specific kind of dread, a low hum of anxiety that settles behind my eyes. It’s the prelude to our anniversary. Our fifteenth, this time. A milestone that should feel like crystal but instead feels like cracking glass.
I was standing over a blueprint for the Miller property, trying to figure out how to create a sense of lush privacy without building a ten-foot wall, when Mark texted. *Big plans for the 28th! You’re going to love it.*
My stomach tightened. I knew his language. “Big plans” meant a big purchase. “You’re going to love it” meant *he* was going to love it.
I clicked my pen against the vellum, the sharp taps echoing in the quiet of my home office. For our tenth, he bought a top-of-the-line Weber Genesis grill. “For our amazing summer barbecues,” he’d declared, despite the fact I’m a nervous griller who usually ends up with hockey-puck burgers. He used it three times that year.
For our twelfth, it was a set of Callaway golf clubs. “So we can spend more time together on the course,” he’d said, conveniently forgetting I find golf to be a four-hour exercise in frustration. They were, of course, fitted perfectly to his height and swing.
Last year was the Oura Ring. “We can track our sleep and optimize our health together!” he’d chirped. He bought one. For himself. He’d show me his “Readiness Score” every morning while I was just trying to get my drip coffee to brew, a daily report on the one person whose wellness he was truly invested in.
A Package for Us
Two days before the anniversary, a large box from Williams Sonoma appeared on the front porch. I saw it from the kitchen window as the delivery truck pulled away, and the familiar wave of resignation washed over me. Mark got home before I had a chance to drag it inside.
“Oh, awesome! It’s here,” he said, his face lighting up with the genuine, boyish excitement that I once found so charming and now found so infuriating. He sliced through the packing tape with a key from his pocket.
Inside, nestled in a mountain of styrofoam, was a gleaming, chrome-and-steel monstrosity. A Breville Oracle Touch espresso machine. It looked like it could launch a satellite. It had a color touchscreen and more dials than a cockpit.
“Look at this thing, Sarah! Isn’t she a beauty?” He ran his hand over the chrome like it was the hood of a sports car. “No more bitter coffee for us. We’re in the big leagues now.”
I stared at the machine, then at my simple Mr. Coffee maker tucked in the corner, a loyal soldier that had served me well for six years. “Mark, I don’t drink espresso. And you know I like my cheap Folgers.”
“But this is an *experience*,” he insisted, already plugging it in. “You just haven’t had good espresso. This will change your whole morning routine. *Our* whole morning routine.” The machine whirred to life with an electronic chime, its screen glowing. He beamed, completely oblivious. He’d bought himself another toy and wrapped it in the guise of a shared domestic upgrade.
A Glimmer of Hope
I decided to try a different tactic that night. A direct approach, disguised as casual conversation. We were cleaning up after dinner, our seventeen-year-old daughter, Lily, scrolling on her phone at the table, half-listening in that way teenagers do.
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