On my birthday, my husband gave me a wilted bouquet from a trash bin — so I made sure to get revenge for that “thoughtful” gift. 😲😲
It was my birthday.
I got… a wilted bouquet.
“Where are these flowers from?” I asked coldly. “Our trash bin?”
“So what?” my husband replied, completely unfazed. “Some idiot threw them out too early. They’ll last another two weeks easy. Still good flowers…”
I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Seriously? You gave me flowers from the trash? Is that all I deserve to you?”
“It’s not a gift,” he shrugged. “Told you I wasn’t getting anything. Just thought they looked nice.”
That was the breaking point.
“I’m so sick of your stinginess! What’s next — leftovers? Do you hear yourself?”
“What’s wrong with it?” he said. “They’re flowers. And for the record, they were on top of the trash, not in it.”
I was so disgusted, I didn’t say another word. I just walked to my room and cried.
Cried for a long time.
Felt sorry for myself.
The flowers stayed in the house a couple more days — then he tossed them back in the trash, where they belonged.
I stopped being angry.
But forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting.
So I made a quiet decision: for his birthday, I’d give him a “gift” he wouldn’t soon forget.
Two months later, it was Alexey’s fortieth.
He’s superstitious and refused to celebrate, saying “you’re not supposed to.”
I texted him my congratulations and promised a gift.
I got home early and set a modest table — nothing special, just symbolic.
He arrived closer to nine.
Glanced at the table and muttered,
“You didn’t have to go all out.”
“I figured a little celebration wouldn’t hurt. And… I got you a present!” I said brightly and ran to the bedroom.
I came back holding a box tied with a red ribbon and handed it to him.
“What’s inside?” he asked, shaking it.
“Open it and see,” I smiled.
He tugged off the ribbon, lifted the lid, and peeked inside.
Oh, how sweet it was watching his expression change.
“Socks and… underwear?” he asked, wrinkling his nose as he lifted a sock with two fingers. “Why do they look old? Did someone wear these already?”
“Of course,” I said cheerfully. “Why buy new? I got them on discount at a secondhand store.”
He exploded.
“What’s wrong with you?! That’s disgusting!” he shouted, throwing the box onto the floor.
I just looked him in the eye and said calmly:
“The same thing that was wrong with you when you gave me flowers from a trash bin.”
