My Husband Said He'd 'Handle Dinner' on Our Anniversary—Then Ordered Takeout for Himself and Forgot I Was Home

On our 10th anniversary, I believed my husband's promise to "handle dinner." Dressed up and waiting for a romantic surprise, I was stunned when a takeout delivery arrived — for him. He forgot I was even home, so I decided to go somewhere else!

I marked ten years of marriage on a Tuesday in April, wearing red lipstick and the dress that once made my husband stutter mid-sentence.

For a decade, I had been the keeper of special moments.

I'd carefully planned birthdays with personalized cakes, Christmas gifts wrapped weeks in advance, and anniversary dinners at classy restaurants.

I remembered his mother's birthday when he forgot, sent cards to his siblings, and maintained our social calendar with military precision.

But this year, I thought it was time I got to feel the thrill of having someone surprise me with a special treat. Just this once, I wanted to sit back and let my husband do the planning.

A week before our anniversary, I brought it up casually over breakfast. I stirred my coffee slowly, not looking up.

"So... have you made any plans for our anniversary next week?" I asked, trying to sound light, unbothered.

Eric glanced up from his phone. "Haven't you made plans?"

I shook my head. "Not this year. I thought it was time you took a turn at planning our anniversary celebration."

Eric frowned a little, glanced back at his phone, then smiled. "Don't worry. I've got dinner covered."

Something fluttered in my chest; hope, maybe. Dangerous hope.

"Really?" I couldn't help the surprise in my voice.

"Yeah, really." He rolled his eyes, still smiling. "Ten years together. That's a big deal, right?"

I nodded, hiding my smile behind my mug. Maybe this would be different. Maybe this time, I'd be on the receiving end of thoughtfulness.

On the day of our anniversary, I worked from home, my attention split between spreadsheets and the clock.

By 3 p.m., I'd answered my last email. By 4 p.m., I was in the shower, letting the anticipation build under the hot water.

I shaved my legs (something I hadn't bothered with in months), blow-dried my hair, and curled it into soft waves.

I applied foundation, blush, mascara, and finally, that bold red lipstick I'd been saving.

The red dress that always turned Eric's head still fit, though a bit more snugly than five years ago. I slipped into black heels that had gathered dust in the back of the closet.

By 6:30 p.m., I was ready, sitting on the edge of our bed, waiting. I'd heard Eric arrive home an hour ago, but he hadn't come upstairs or called out to me yet.

I watched the time tick past, but I stayed in the bedroom.

I didn't want to ruin the surprise if he'd planned a special night in.

6:45 p.m. came and went.

I was growing restless now, jumping at every small sound from downstairs.

By 7 p.m. I was going out of my mind. Eric still hadn't called up the stairs or even texted me.

Then the doorbell rang.

My heart jumped into my throat.

He must've arranged for something to be delivered, but what? Flowers? Had he ordered a private chef for the evening?

I heard his footsteps moving toward the door, then voices — a brief exchange — and the door closing again.

The unmistakable rustle of plastic bags followed. Then silence.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I stood, smoothing my dress one last time, and made my way downstairs.

The living room lights were dim.

The scent of cumin and lime filled the air… had he ordered takeout?

Eric walked in then through the arch leading into the kitchen, holding a burrito bowl.

I watched from the hall as he kicked off his shoes, sank onto the sofa, and turned on the TV.

I stepped out into the living room. "Where's mine?"

Eric whirled around, eyes wide.

"Hey! Uh, I forgot you were home." He broke off with a laugh. "You gave me a scare. Order something for yourself. It's not too late. We can watch the game together."

I waited for him to say something about my appearance, our anniversary… anything. But his gaze passed over my red dress and styled hair like there was nothing special about it.

"Watch the game together… order takeout… is this really what you planned for our anniversary, Eric?"

"What? It's just dinner." He shrugged, turning back to the game. "We can go somewhere nice this weekend if you want."

I stood there for what felt like minutes but was probably seconds. Ten years flashed before my eyes — a decade of remembering, planning, hoping, and being disappointed. A decade of being unseen.

Without a word, I grabbed my coat and purse from the hook by the door.

"Where are you going?" he called, but I was already closing the door behind me. I knew exactly where I was going, but he didn't need to know that.

The night air was cool against my bare legs as I exited my car outside a small Italian restaurant tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat. I'd passed it a hundred times but never gone in.

Tonight seemed the perfect time to change that.

"Table for one," I told the hostess, a woman about my age with kind eyes.

"Of course. Right this way." She led me to a small table near the window. "That's a beautiful dress," she added with a smile. "The color looks great on you."

Just like that, tears threatened. Someone had noticed.

"Thank you," I managed.

The restaurant was warm and intimate, with soft lighting and the smell of garlic and wine in the air. I ordered a glass of Merlot and studied the menu, suddenly ravenous.

"I'll have the fettuccine," I told the server when she returned. "And tiramisu for dessert."

"Treating yourself tonight?" she asked with a smile.

I nodded. "It's my anniversary."

She didn't ask where my husband was, and I was grateful.

Halfway through my pasta, I noticed a man about my age sitting alone at the bar. He caught me looking and smiled briefly before returning to his drink.

A few minutes later, our eyes met again. This time, he raised his glass slightly, a small toast. I smiled back, feeling something I hadn't felt in years: eye-catching.

After he paid his bill, he walked over to my table.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," he said, his voice warm. "I just wanted to say you look lovely tonight."

Under normal circumstances, I might have mentioned my husband, shown my ring, and kept the conversation brief.

Instead, I said, "Thank you. Would you like to join me for dessert? I ordered way too much tiramisu."

"I'd like that," he said, and sat down across from me.

His name was Daniel.

He was a high school English teacher who loved Steinbeck and hated grading papers. He'd been divorced for three years.

He laughed easily and asked questions that showed he was listening to my answers.

For 30 minutes, we talked about books, the neighborhood, and the merits of tiramisu versus panna cotta.

Nothing deep, nothing profound, just easy conversation that made me feel human again.

When the check came, he insisted on paying.

"Let me," I said. "It's my anniversary present to myself."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't ask.

"Can I get your number?" he asked as we stood to leave. "Maybe we could get coffee sometime."

I hesitated only briefly before reciting my number, which he typed into his phone.

We said goodnight outside the restaurant, and I headed home, savoring the feeling of being seen, even if just for an evening.

I wasn't surprised, and strangely, I wasn't disappointed. That brief connection had served its purpose.

The next morning, I sat at our kitchen table with a cup of coffee and divorce papers I'd printed from an online legal service. Eric found me there when he came down for breakfast.

"What's this?" he asked, still half-asleep.

"Divorce papers," I said simply.

He laughed at first, then saw my face and stopped. "You can't be serious. Over dinner? Over a burrito bowl?"

"It wasn't the burrito," I said quietly.

"Then what? Are you seeing someone? That's it, isn't it?" His voice rose with each question.

I shook my head.

"It's not about anyone else. It's about me being invisible in this marriage. About ten years of being the only one who tries."

"That's not fair," he protested. "I was just tired yesterday. I didn't mean to forget. How could you throw ten years away over one mistake?"

I looked at him and realized he truly didn't understand. He never had.

"It wasn't the burrito," I repeated. "It was everything before the burrito. And everything you never saw."

I signed my name on the dotted line with steady hands. Eric begged and pleaded over the next few weeks. He promised changes, therapy, date nights, anything I wanted.

But I knew the truth: I'd already been alone for years.

I didn't leave because of that anniversary dinner. I didn't leave because of the man at the restaurant. I left because I finally understood that I deserved to be seen.

And for the first time in a decade, I no longer felt the need to beg for it.

Here's another story: When Eric insisted on paying for our first date, I thought I'd met a true gentleman. Roses, a sweet gift, charming conversation — he was checking all the boxes. When he texted me the next day, I expected a cute follow-up, but my stomach dropped when I read his message.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.