When my husband handed me $50 and told me to “make it work” for Christmas dinner, I didn’t argue. I just made sure he’d regret it.
Mark had always taken holiday hosting for granted, acting like cooking for his family was my job while he did nothing. But this year, he took it too far. Tossing a fifty-dollar bill on the counter, he smirked and said, “Don’t embarrass me in front of my parents.”
So I didn’t.
Instead, I dipped into my own savings and went all out—professional catering, premium wine, a dessert table that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel. When his family walked in, their eyes widened at the extravagant spread.
Mark, oblivious, patted himself on the back. “See? I knew you could stretch that money.”
That’s when I dropped the bomb. “Actually, this cost about $750. Your fifty barely covered the napkins.”
The look on his face was priceless. His mother gasped. His father shook his head. And as the table erupted in laughter, I handed Mark an envelope—my spa reservation confirmation.
“Enjoy doing the dishes,” I said. “I’ll be enjoying a massage.”
