“Here you go, love, my gift to you,” the husband said, handing his wife an empty box.
George woke up earlier than usual and started clattering pots and pans, hoping to wake up Beatrice.
But he had to put in some real effort before his annoyed wife finally appeared in the kitchen.
“I’ve got another hour before I need to get up. Could you keep it down?” Beatrice grumbled, smoothing her messy hair.
“Did I wake you? Wanted to get an early start—big day today,” George said, pouring himself a coffee. “Want some?”
“No, I’m going back to sleep,” she muttered, turning on her heel and retreating to the bedroom.
George watched her go with a puzzled look, lips pressed in a pout. How could she not remember what today was?
He let out a heavy sigh, realising Beatrice had completely forgotten his birthday.
Still, he quickly cheered himself up, convinced she’d surprise him later.
Settling into his optimism, he headed to work, where his colleagues welcomed him with warm wishes and handed him a wristwatch in a gift box.
Thrilled, George nearly texted Beatrice to brag but decided to wait. The workday dragged on forever, but finally, as soon as the clock struck six, he dashed home, imagining a lovely dinner and a thoughtful present waiting.
Not wanting to catch her off guard, he pressed the doorbell instead of using his key—but after a couple of minutes, it was clear she wasn’t home. His heart sank.
Kicking off his shoes in the hallway, he checked the kitchen, half-hoping she’d nipped to the shops and left his gift on the table.
Nothing. Just disappointment. It was like she’d completely blanked on his birthday.
After stewing for an hour, he called her. She took forever to answer, then snapped at him for interrupting an important call.
That was the moment it hit him—she wasn’t going to celebrate him at all.
Beatrice finally shuffled in late that night, collapsing onto the sofa without even taking off her coat.
“Got anything to eat?” she yawned. “I’m starving.”
“Nope.”
“Seriously? You couldn’t have made something? You knew I’d be late.”
“I thought *you* might’ve cooked. Considering… today was kind of a special day?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh—oh! Your birthday! Right! Happy birthday! I’ll get you something tomorrow, promise.”
But tomorrow came and went, then the week, then the month—no gift ever appeared. George couldn’t help but feel hurt.
He nursed the grudge, determined to return the favour.
A week before *her* birthday, Beatrice started dropping heavy hints about wanting a gold bracelet.
George just nodded along, smiling politely like he’d taken the hint.
Truthfully? He was busy planning his revenge for her forgetting his birthday—and giving him nothing.
Unlike her, he made sure she knew he remembered.
“Your present’s coming tonight,” he said casually before leaving for work.
On the way, he popped into the jeweller’s to pick up the order he’d placed days earlier.
Beatrice, too eager to wait, rushed home early, desperate to get her hands on that gift.
But George, knowing she would, decided to teach her a lesson—so he turned up two hours late.
She met him at the door, eyes bright with excitement—especially when she spotted the red box in his hand.
“Here you go, love! My gift to you!” he beamed, handing it over.
Beatrice was giddy, absolutely certain a gold bracelet lay inside.
She ripped off the wrapping, flipped open the velvet case—then froze.
Empty.
“…Is this a joke?” she croaked.
“Nope. Exactly what you deserve,” George said, arms crossed, smirking.
“You’re *punishing* me?” Her face twisted with fury. “You utter *jerk*!” She hurled the box at him.
Seething, she stormed off to the bedroom, sobbing like her heart was broken.
Hearing her cry, guilt twisted in George’s chest. Maybe he’d gone too far—he didn’t need to humiliate her.
Six years of marriage, and they’d never fought like this.
He turned on his heel and slipped out, determined to make things right.
He barely made it to the jeweller’s before closing, grabbing the prettiest gold bracelet in sight. Fifty grand later, he was racing home.
Beatrice was still in bed, sniffling now and then, clearly wounded by the empty box.
“Beatrice…” George stepped in, hiding the velvet case behind his back.
She huffed, turning away.
“Alright, I’m sorry for the stupid joke,” he relented. “Look what I’ve got,” he murmured, taking her wrist and sliding the bracelet onto it.
She wiped her tears, staring at it in disbelief.
After all that—he’d actually given her what she wanted.
“I’m sorry too,” she whispered. “I’ll never forget your birthday again.”