For my 30th birthday, I booked a vegan restaurant in Manchester called The Green Leaf—something I’d been excited about for weeks. I’m the only vegan in my friend group, and I usually compromise for them. This time, I just wanted one night where I didn’t have to.
Dinner seemed great. We laughed, reminisced, and they happily ate everything. Then the $430 bill arrived—and no one moved. When I asked how we’d split it, Callum laughed and said they shouldn’t have to pay because they “hate vegan food” and only came for me. The others agreed. They treated my lifestyle like a burden—and my birthday like a joke.
Humiliated but calm, I paid the full bill and walked out.
Then I returned with a box of carefully chosen birthday gifts I’d spent months saving for—vintage watches, skincare, a first-edition book, even a camera lens. Instead of handing them out, I wrote “FOR THE HOMELESS SHELTER” across each bag.
“You’re right,” I said. “This dinner showed me what our friendship is worth—about eighty-six dollars each.” Then I left and donated the gifts.
The next morning, my phone was full of apologies and money transfers. I blocked them all—not out of anger, but self-respect.
On my 30th, I learned that some people are only there for the “free meal”—whether that’s food, support, or effort. When you stop serving them, they show you who they are.
I’m starting this decade with fewer friends—but better ones.