I Spotted the Gift My Husband Bought for a Colleague and Cancelled the Family Dinner

23March

I set out for Tesco with a list that already felt like a battlefield. Victor, my husband, was already hurling complaints over the squeak of the trolley as we shoved a hefty pack of pork neck onto the conveyor. Ethel, are you out of your mind? Thats enough meat for a regiment! he snapped, while the clerk scanned the parcel. A whole chicken would have been cheaper and healthier.

Ethel, standing behind me, sighed and readjusted the strap of her tote. This tirade has become a ritual before every family gathering. Victor, who loves to brag about his promotions at work, turns into a Scrooge at homeevery penny is watched, every extra yoghurt seen as a threat to the household budget.

Victor, its your golden jubilee. Fifty years, I whispered, careful not to be overheard by the cashier. Your parents, my sister and her husband, a few mates from the planteveryones coming. I cant serve boiled chicken and potatoes; theyll think were not celebrating properly.

He grumbled, People will understand. Its the company, not the stuffing, that matters, but left the pork on the belt, glancing at the disapproving stare of a woman in the next line. Fine, take it. Just cut back on the saladsno prawns, no avocado. Stick to good old Oliver and vinaigrette, everyone loves those.

We left the store lugging bagstwo heavy ones for me, one for Victor, the latter rattling with bottles of gin. He always claims a back injury from his time in the army, though Ive seen him haul cement bags at Mums cottage without a wince.

Back home the prebirthday rush began. Two days to go. I drafted a timetable: the jelly to set tonight, sponge cakes tomorrow morning, the roast on the day. I enjoy cooking, but lately it feels more like duty than pleasure. Victor constantly nitpickstoo greasy, underseasoned, why the extra garnish?

That evening, as the jelly simmered with garlic and bay leaves, Victor slipped off to the bedroom to watch the news. I stayed at the sink, thinking about turning fortyfive soon and the cracked winter boots Ive patched twice already. When I asked him for new shoes, he shrugged, Seasons ending; well see about sales in autumn.

Morning found Victor at work as head of logistics for a large retail chain. His salary is decent, though I rarely see it. Our finances are split: he pays the utilities and the car, I stretch my nurses wages over groceries, cleaning supplies, clothes, and gifts for the extended family. The rest he squirrels away in a secret nest egg hidden in a locked box in the wardrobefor retirement or for a dream, he never says which.

While dusting the upstairs closet, I climbed on a stool and reached for the farthest corner. My hand brushed a hard object beneath a pile of sweaters. It was a sleek, glossy parcel from an upscale jeweller. My heart lurched. Could Victor have bought me a surprise for my own birthday, a month after his? Or was this a token for someone else?

Inside lay a deepblue velvet box. I opened it to reveal a gold braceletdelicate, intricately woven, studded with stones that resembled topazes. It must have cost at least fivehundred pounds, maybe more. Tears welled as I pressed the box to my chest, chastising myself for thinking Victor was stingy.

A folded receipt and a tiny card slipped out. In an elegant hand it read:

To my lovely Ethel, may your eyes shine brighter than these gems. Happy birthday, Queen of Logistics! Yours, V.

I recognised the name. Jenna, Victors new deputy, who arrived six months ago. Hes often spoken about her at dinner in strictly business terms: Jenna proposed a new route, Jennas sharp, shell go far. Id seen her on a few corporate photosblonde, striking, with a predators gaze.

The receipt listed £780. That amount could have bought me a new pair of winter boots ten times over, covered the bathroom remodel Ive been begging for three years, or funded the seaside holiday we never took.

My hands trembled. I slipped the bracelet back into its box, the box into the parcel, and the parcel behind the sweaters. I stood, the silence in the hallway ringing like a bell.

No chicken budget, no boots budget, but a £780 bracelet for the queen of logistics.

I went to the kitchen. The sponge batter waited, the jelly cooled, the pork neck still in the fridge. I stared at the wall, feeling a string inside me snap. All those years of mending his socks, dyeing my hair cheap, denying myself a piece of chocolateall to keep the family afloat. And he was stealing from that very family to buy a glittering trinket for a colleague.

I grabbed the heavy pot of jelly, tipped it into the bedside commode. I dumped the pork into the bin, the batter followed suit. I shoved the pork neck into the freezerperhaps Id use it later for myself. Then I phoned my motherinlaw.

Hello, Mrs. Whitaker? Its Ethel. Regarding tomorrows celebration Victors fallen ill, a serious infection, the doctors put him in strict quarantine. Please tell Zoe and the others not to come.

I called everyonemy sisterinlaw, the plant mates, the relativesdelivering the same cold excuse. My motherinlaw whined about home remedies, but I held firm: no one was to enter.

After the calls I fetched my old, battered suitcase from the hall, the one we used for trips to Brighton a decade ago, and began stuffing Victors clothes in a haphazard heap: shirts, trousers, socks, the repaired underwear. I added his winter coat and boots in a bag of rubbish, then placed the suitcase in the corridor.

Victor returned at seven, humming something, evidently pleased with his upcoming birthday and Jennas gift.

Ethel, Im home! Smell that? Must be the jelly, he shouted, stepping over the suitcase barricade.

Seeing the makeshift barrier, he asked, Whats this all about?

Were throwing you out, Victor, I said calmly.

His face went pale, the zipper of his coat halfopen.

What are you talking about? My birthdays tomorrow, guests are coming

The guests arent coming. Ive told them youre contagious.

He shouted, his cheeks flushing, Youve gone mad! My parents are driving in from the countryside, everyones planned! Did the stove burn you?

Im not burnt. I just found a present.

He pale, eyes darting to the closet, then back.

What present? Did you rummage through my things?

I was dusting. I found a bracelet for your queen of logisticssevenhundredeighty pounds.

Silence settled, broken only by the hum of the fridge. Victor tried to justify: It was a team gift, everyone pitched in, I had a discount card, we kept it hidden so Jenna wouldnt see it early. The card was just a joke, corporate humour.

I replied, Team of ten people? That would be eight hundred pounds each. I saw the receipt, cash payment.

He stammered, Its an investment in valuable staffJenna brings millions to the firm!

Investment? I snapped. Your wife walks in torn boots, we eat on discount. You skimp on meat for your own jubilee but spend nearly a thousand on a colleagues wrist.

He roared, Its my money! I work hard, I earn it, I can spend it how I like!

I shrugged, Fine then, live with your queen or with your mother. The flat belongs to memy grandmother left it to me. Youre only on the lease, no ownership.

He blinked, having forgotten that detail.

Are you throwing me out? On the street? In winter? Over a bracelet?

Not over the bracelet, Victor. Over the lies. Over treating me like a convenience, a piece of furniture you can tighten the purse strings on.

He clenched his fists, pride keeping him from pleading. Youll regret this. Youll crawl back when the tap leaks or the money runs out.

I watched him grab the suitcase, shove the bracelet into its inner pocket, and fling the house keys onto the table. Take them and go, I said.

He muttered, Youre a psycho, spoiling my jubilee, before the door slammed shut. I bolted it, first the latch, then the deadbolt, leaning my back against the cold metal. I didnt cry; instead a strange relief washed over me, as if Id shed a tight, itchy sweater after years of wear.

I returned to the kitchen, opened the freezer, and pulled out the pork neck. Ill thaw it tomorrow, glaze it with honey and mustard, and treat myself to a decent bottle of red wine. Ill celebrate a personal holiday: the day I freed myself from greed and betrayal.

The next day the phones rang nonstopmy motherinlaw screaming that Id ruined her sons life, my sisterinlaw pleading, both blocked. Victor texted later, Ethel, lets talk. Ill return the bracelet, the money. Dont be angry. I deleted the message. Trust isnt a piece of jewellery you can rescind with a receipt.

A week later I collected an advance, went to the shopping centre, and bought a pair of genuine leather bootsItalian, sturdy, perfect fit. As I passed the mirror, the tired woman Id become faded, replaced by a confident, selfassured version who knows her own worth.

Victor, as I later learned, moved into a onebed flat on the outskirts. Jenna kept the bracelet, but their romance didnt lastshe wanted prospects, not a dead weight.

I oversaw the bathroom remodel myself, chose seagreen tiles, and each time I step inside, I smile, remembering how costly some mens need to flash sparkle can be, and how cheap they value the ones who truly support them.

Lesson: never skimp on the people who matter, especially when the only person you can truly rely on is yourself.