For my husband’s birthday, I sacrificed weekends, lost sleep, and saved $5,500 to surprise him with a rare, signed lithograph from his favorite artist.

On my birthday, he gave me a tiny box, his eyes filled with expectation.

But as I lifted the lid, my excitement curdled into disbelief. I lost it.

He gifted me a toothpick holder.

It was shaped like a tiny chicken, ceramic and glossy. A $6 sticker was still barely peeled off the bottom.

I remember holding it up between my fingers like it was radioactive. “What… is this?” I asked, blinking hard.

He grinned like a schoolboy. “It’s quirky, right? You love chickens.”

“I like live chickens,” I snapped, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “When have I ever said I needed a chicken toothpick holder?”

He blinked, his grin faltering. “I thought it was cute. I saw it in that shop on Main Street.”

“You mean the one next to the gas station?”

He nodded.

I stared at him, the weight of all those late nights budgeting, the missed girls’ nights out, the freelance side gigs I took just to save enough for his gift… crashing down on me in one ridiculous moment.

And he’d given me a knickknack.

He scratched his head. “I mean, it’s not just that. I also planned a nice dinner at Luigi’s tomorrow.”

“Luigi’s doesn’t take reservations,” I said flatly. “They stopped doing that last year.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

And for the first time in our seven years of marriage, I realized something painful—I had been putting way more into this relationship than he had. Way more.

That thought sat with me all night. Heavy. It wasn’t about the money or the gift itself—it was the carelessness. The imbalance. The assumption that I’d be fine with crumbs while I gave him everything.

He didn’t bring it up again. I didn’t either.

But something cracked.

The next few days were weird. We were polite. Too polite. He cleaned the dishes. I folded his laundry. But we didn’t really talk. Not talk.Read More Below