“Fiona, can you help with the birthday party?” I asked over the phone from my cozy spot on the couch.
“Sure, Madeleine,” she said. “What do you need?”
“Decorations and food. I’ll send money for supplies and a simple BBQ.”
“No problem,” she replied. “I’ll take care of it.”
Relieved, I texted her a list and left the house key under the mat.
Later, my fiancé Albert and I went to grab cups and plates. I told him Fiona was handling the rest. But when we returned, I was stunned: instead of a BBQ, the table was covered in veggies, rice cakes, and 0% yogurt. The cake? Half a watermelon with candles.
“Fiona, what happened to the BBQ?” I asked.
She replied, “It wasn’t a good idea considering your size.”
I was furious. Fiona, obsessed with dieting, had hijacked the menu under the guise of “helping.” I kept calm for the guests’ sake and asked Albert to order burgers and pizza.
Just as things were settling, Fiona exploded: “SORRY FOR TRYING TO HELP YOU LOSE ALL THIS FAT!” she shouted in front of everyone. “DON’T CRY WHEN YOUR FIANCÉ LEAVES YOU!”
Shocked and humiliated, I pulled her aside and asked her to stop. Albert helped smooth things over with the guests. I wrote a note for the delivery guy to hand the food to me—not Fiona.
When the BBQ arrived, I cheerfully served everyone. For Fiona, I stacked a towering plate of veggies. “Fiona, here’s a special plate just for you!” I said sweetly. “Wouldn’t want you becoming unlovable by eating unhealthy food!”
Red-faced, she mumbled “Thanks” and left quietly.
The party was a hit. People enjoyed the food, the atmosphere, and the evening turned out great. Fiona? She got a taste of her own medicine.
What would you have done?