I Thought Our Anniversary Dinner Would Be a Proposal – But My Boyfriend Ended Up Embarrassing Me in the Worst Way

I dressed in emerald and hope, certain our third anniversary meant a ring.
Ryan booked the fancy place—linen napkins, candlelight, nerves. Dessert arrived: a plate scrawled in pink icing—“Congrats on Your Promotion!” The promotion I’d lost because I was “likely to get married soon.” He called it “positive vibes.” I called it a public joke.

I paid my half, kept my dignity, and let his texts rot.

Three days later, I invited him over: “surprise.”
Black-and-gold balloons. Friends circled. A banner arched over the cake:

“Congrats on Becoming Bald! (Manifesting Early!)”

His face went beet red. “Not funny.”

“Neither was faking my success,” I said. “Mine’s a joke. Yours was cruel.”

He stormed out. The room exhaled.

One of his friends lingered, grinning at the wreckage. “For the record,” he said, “best comeback I’ve ever seen. You deserve better.”

“Maybe I finally do,” I said.

Outside, the night felt lighter. No ring, no promotion—yet. But I’d chosen something better than either: myself. And this time, I didn’t need cake to prove it.