After three years together, I was sure our anniversary dinner would end with a proposal. Ryan had booked a fancy restaurant, told me to dress up, and teased a “special surprise.” I wore the emerald-green dress he loved, hoping this would be the night.
But instead of a ring, dessert arrived with pink icing that read: “Congrats on Your Promotion!”—a cruel joke, since I’d just lost that promotion due to sexist office gossip. Ryan knew how much it hurt, yet he turned my pain into a punchline. I was humiliated, not celebrated.
When I confronted him, he brushed it off as “positive vibes.” But his smirk said it all—he didn’t understand, or worse, didn’t care. I paid my half and left.
Days passed. My friends were split—some said he meant well, others saw the cruelty. One friend suggested a “revenge party.” So I planned one.
Ryan, obsessed with his hair and self-image, was invited to my place for a “surprise.” He walked into a room filled with black and gold balloons and a banner that read: “Congrats on Becoming Bald!” The cake mirrored his joke: “Manifesting It Early!”
His friends laughed. Ryan didn’t. I told him, “I’m just shifting the energy. Good vibes, right?” He stormed out, furious.
But the night didn’t end there. One of his friends, Zach, stayed behind. He said, “That was the best comeback I’ve ever seen. Honestly, you deserve better.”
And maybe I do.
