Caught Sight of the Gift My Husband Bought for a Colleague, and Cancelled the Family Dinner!

Listen, love, you wont believe what happened last week. Im still shaking.

So Im at the Tesco in Leeds with Victor, my husband, and were in the checkout line. Hes unloading a massive pack of pork neck from his basket, thumping it onto the conveyor like were feeding an entire army. Brielle, what on earth are you doing with all that meat? Were not feeding a platoon, were just having a modest family dinner, he mutters, sounding annoyed. A chicken wouldve been cheaper and healthier.

I just sigh, adjusting the strap on my tote. This whole argument repeats every time a holiday rolls around. Victor loves to brag about his work achievements at parties, but at home he turns into a tightfisted Scrooge. Every penny counts, and a stray yoghurt feels like a betrayal of the family budget.

Im turning fifty tomorrow, Victor, I say quietly, hoping the cashier wont hear. Your parents, my sister and her husband, and a bunch of mates from the factory are coming. I cant just serve boiled chicken and jacket potatoes. Theyll think were not trying.

He grunts, Its the company, not the calories, that matters, but still leaves the pork on the belt, glancing at the disapproving stare from the woman in front of us. Fine, take it. Just cut back on the salad. No more your fancy shrimp and avocado. Keep it simple the classic Oliver and vinaigrette. Everyone loves that.

We leave the store, bags in hand. Im hauling two heavy ones, hes got one with a few bottles of gin rattling inside. He always claims a lingering back injury from his time in the army, yet hed haul cement bags at his mums cottage without a flinch.

Back at our flat, the prebirthday hustle kicks in. The big day is two days away. Ive got a schedule scribbled on the fridge: jellied pork to set tonight, sponge cake layers tomorrow morning, and the hot dishes saved for the actual celebration. I used to love cooking, but lately it feels more like a chore, especially with Victor constantly nitpicking too fatty, needs more salt, why did you move the ingredients?

That evening, while the jellied pork simmers, Victor retreats to the bedroom to watch the news. Im alone at the sink, thinking about turning fortyfive soon, still lugging around my battered winter boots that Ive patched twice already. When I ask him for a new pair, he sighs, The seasons ending, love. Maybe therell be a sale in autumn.

The next morning Victor heads off to work. Hes the head of logistics at a large retail firm, decent salary, though I barely see a penny of it. We run a sortof separate budget: he pays the council tax and his car, I stretch my nurses wages to cover groceries, cleaning supplies, my clothes, and gifts for the extended family. The rest he squirrels away in a little tin safe hidden in the wardrobe, calling it for a rainy day or for a dream never saying what that dream is.

I decide to dust the top shelf of the hallway wardrobe, a place no one ever looks. Up there are old hats, scarves, outofseason shoes. I climb onto a step stool, reach for the far corner, and my hand knocks into something hard behind a pile of sweaters.

Its a glossy, highend jewellery bag from a boutique Ive never heard of.

My heart skips. Could Victor be planning a surprise? My birthday is a month after his milestone. Or maybe hes just trying to butter me up because hes grateful for all I do?

I pull the bag open with trembling fingers. Inside is a deepblue velvet box. I lift the lid and gasp a gold bracelet, delicate, intricate weave with tiny topazlike stones. Its pricey, easily over £1,200.

I press the box to my chest, tears welling up. I berate myself for thinking hes cheap. Hes been grumbling about the pork, but maybe he splurged on this for me. Shame floods my anger.

On the bottom of the bag I spot a folded receipt and a tiny card. Curiosity wins. The card, in an elegant, looping hand, reads:

My dear Brielle,
May your eyes sparkle brighter than these stones.
Happy birthday, Queen of Logistics!
Yours, V.

I read it over and over. The name Brielle hits me like a punch. Thats not me. Thats Janice Victors new deputy, the ambitious thirtysomething who joined the firm six months ago. Hes always bragging about Janices new route at dinner, always in a business tone. Ive seen her in a few corporate photos he shows me tall, blonde, sharp eyes.

I stare at the receipt £1,200. Thats the cost of a new pair of boots multiplied by ten, the bathroom remodel Ive been begging for for three years, the vacation we never took.

My hands shake. I slip the bracelet back into the box, the box into the bag, and hide it with the sweaters. I sit down, the buzz of the fridge the only sound.

So now theres no money for chicken, no cash for my boots, but theres a lavish bracelet for the queen of logistics. Its absurd.

I wander back to the kitchen. The cake batter sits on the counter, the jellied pork broth cools on the stove, the pork neck still chilling in the fridge.

I stare at the wall and feel something snap inside, like a string finally breaking. I remember darning his socks because new ones would be a waste of money, dyeing my hair with cheap kit, skipping the extra chocolate bar all for the family, for our future.

And hes been stealing from that future to buy gold for another woman.

Yours, V. Not colleague Victor, but Your V.

I stand, stride to the stove, grab the pot of broth, and dump it straight into the toilet. I toss the pork neck into the bin, the cake batter follows. I shove the pork neck into the freezer Ill need it later, for myself.

Then I pick up the phone.

Hello, Mrs. Parker? I say, surprisingly calm. Its Brielle. About tomorrows birthday We have to cancel. Victors fallen ill, serious infection, doctors orders strict quarantine. Please tell Zoe and the rest. Thank you.

I call everyone motherinlaw, sisterinlaw, friends and spin the same story: Victors sick, the partys off. Mum tries to push her home remedies, but I shut her down, refusing anyone in.

After the calls I head to the bedroom, pull out the old, battered suitcase we used for a seaside holiday a decade ago, and start stuffing Victors clothes in haphazard piles shirts, trousers, socks, that patched underwear.

When the bags full I line it up in the hallway, add a couple of big garbage bags with his winter coat and boots, then slip on my old boots, coat, grab my handbag, and sit in the hallway chair, waiting.

Victor strolls in at seven, humming something, clearly thrilled about tomorrows Janice celebration and his own birthday.

Bri, Im home! he shouts, sniffing the air. Whats that smell? Ah, the jellied pork, I guess

He stops short when he sees the makeshift barricade of suitcase and bags. Im still sitting, coat on, staring at him.

Whats that youre doing? he asks, pulling off his hat. And why the bags? Are we throwing something away?

Were throwing you out, Victor, I say flatly.

He freezes, jacket half unzipped, a goofy look of bewilderment on his face.

What do you mean? Youre joking, right? Its my birthday tomorrow, guests are coming

Guests arent coming, I cut in. Ive called them all and told them youre contagious.

Youre losing it! he snaps, colour draining from his face. My parents are driving up from the countryside! People have plans! Did the stove make you angry?

I didnt overheat at the stove, I reply. I just found a gift.

He turns pale, eyes flicking to the wardrobe, then back to me.

What gift? Were you rummaging through my stuff?

I was dusting. I found a bracelet for your queen of logistics, worth seventyeight hundred pounds.

Silence hangs, only the fridge humming. Victor tries to form an excuse, his mind racing.

Bri, youve got it all wrong! Its a collective gift. The whole department chipped in. I had a discount card, they asked me to buy it and keep it hidden so Janice wouldnt see it early. The card just a joke, corporate humor!

Collective? I smile sadly. Victor, dont act the fool. Ten people in the team each would have had to chip in about £800 for a bracelet that cost £1,200. Your warehouse guys and drivers? They dont have that kind of cash. I saw the receipt, cash payment.

What then?! he snaps, realizing the lie wont stick. Im the boss, I reward talent! Janice brings in millions for the firm its an investment in good relations!

Investment? I stand, voice firm. Your wife is walking around in ragged boots. We eat off specials. You save on meat for your own birthday, yet you spend almost a hundred thousand on some other womans jewellery. Those are our shared funds, Victor. The household budget.

Its my money! he shouts. I work my butt off! You spend yours on tights and lipstick, I can spend mine how I like!

Fine, I shrug. If its your money, live with your queen or with mum. The flat, remember, is mine inherited from my grandmother. Youre just on the lease, no ownership.

Victor looks stunned; hed forgotten that the flat legally belongs to me. After twenty years of marriage its become a shared fortress in his mind.

Youre kicking me out? On the street? In winter? Over a bracelet?

No, over the lies. Over you treating me like an appliance you can cheapenout to impress younger girls. Pack your things. And dont forget the bracelet. Janice is waiting.

He stands, fists clenched, pride keeping him from begging. He grabs the suitcase, the bags, tosses the bracelet into the inner pocket of his coat.

Keys on the table, I tell him.

He flings the keys onto the floor.

Come on, you psycho, ruin my birthday.

He storms out, slamming the door. I bolt it, then the deadbolt, lean against the cold metal, and slide down to the floor.

I dont cry. It feels like a massive weight lifted like shedding a tight, itchy sweater after years of wearing it. Im finally breathing.

I head back to the kitchen, open the freezer, pull out a piece of pork neck, plan to thaw it tomorrow, roast it with honey and mustard for myself, and pop a good bottle of red wine. Ill celebrate my own little liberation day.

The next day my phone explodes mum yelling that Ive ruined her sons life, claiming Victors staying in a hotel, poor thing. I block her number. My sisterinlaw tries to mediate, also blocked.

Later that evening Victor texts: Brielle, lets talk. I overreacted. Ill return the bracelet, give you the money back. Dont cut me off. I smile, delete the message. Trust isnt something you can return with a receipt.

A week later I get an advance, head to the shopping centre, and buy myself a pair of genuine leather boots proper British craftsmanship, comfortable, pricey, exactly what Id been eyeing all winter.

Walking out, I catch my reflection in the window. The tired woman with a dim look is gone, replaced by a confident, radiant version who knows her worth.

And Victor? Turns out hes now renting a tiny flat on the outskirts, Janice kept the bracelet but didnt turn it into a romance shes too smart for a middleaged boss with no future beyond a few alimony checks. Shes the real queen of logistics, chasing real opportunities.

I had the bathroom redone myself chose seafoam tiles, hired the tradespeople, and every time I step in, I smile, remembering how costly a mans need to look impressive can be, and how cheap theyre willing to value the ones who truly supported them.

Dont skimp on the ones you love, especially when that love is you.