Every year, my husband Greg insists we host Christmas dinner for his family, which is fine except for the part where he treats it like some royal command rather than a joint effort.
This year, though, he outdid himself, reducing my work and care to a single dismissive gesture. At that point, I decided I wasn’t just going to cook.
I was going to ensure he learned a lesson he’d never forget.
It all started last week when Greg and I were standing in the kitchen, debating the plans for Christmas dinner. Or, more accurately, I was trying to discuss them while Greg was half-listening, scrolling through his phone.
“We’ll need to plan the menu soon,” I said. “Your family usually expects a full spread, and I want to make sure we have time to get everything.”
Greg looked up, then casually pulled out his wallet, fished out a crumpled $50 bill, and tossed it onto the counter.