Shortened Version:
Yesterday was our third anniversary, and I spent the week convinced Ryan would propose. He made a fancy downtown restaurant reservation and promised a “special surprise”—I dressed up in my emerald‑green dress, brimming with hope.
I’d just missed a promotion I worked so hard for because my colleagues assume I’ll start a family soon. This night meant everything to me.
Dinner began beautifully—compliments, wine, anticipation. But when dessert arrived, it read: “Congrats on Your Promotion!” I froze. I hadn’t gotten it. Ryan called it “manifesting” and thought it’d cheer me up. Humiliating, not helpful. I felt mocked in front of strangers.
I insisted on paying and left. He texted for days—I ignored him. Friends were split, but one told me: “Girl… you need a revenge party.”
So I threw one. I invited Ryan over under the guise of making up. He walked in to black-and-gold decor, a banner saying “Congrats on Becoming Bald!”, and a cake reading “Manifesting It Early!” His friends and mine—including someone named Zach—were there. Ryan fumed, “We’re done.” He left, and most others followed.
Zach stayed and told me, “That was one of the best comebacks I’ve ever seen.” He asked me out—if nothing bald-worthy happens, of course. We laughed. It finally felt like I’d had the last word.