My boyfriend, Ryan, is charming, funny, and absolutely wonderful with his two kids. But there’s one little trick he keeps pulling—every single time we go out to eat with them, suddenly, magically, his wallet is empty or his card is “accidentally” left behind.
Nine months of dating. That’s 36 restaurant bills—all on me.
He always plays it the same way. We sit down, he beams at the kids and says, “Go ahead, order whatever you want! Tonight’s a treat!” And then once the bill lands, cue the surprised patting of pockets: “Oh no… babe, I forgot my card again. I’m so sorry.”
And what am I supposed to do? Make a scene in front of an 8-year-old and a 10-year-old? No. So I pay. Every. Time.
But last week? That was the final straw.
It was payday for me, and Ryan picked the fanciest steakhouse in town. His daughter ordered lobster for the first time ever, and his son went wild with appetizers, mocktails, and even dessert before dinner arrived.
Ryan leaned back like a king, grinning proudly.
“This one’s on you again, babe,” he whispered playfully as the waiter cleared plates. “I swear I’ll get the next one.”
I just smiled. Because this time, I had a plan.
When the bill came—and it was \$327.85—he went into his usual routine. “Oh man, I did it again. Left my card in my gym bag! Can you…?”
I cut him off with a wide smile. “No worries. I already talked to the waiter.”
His grin faltered. “Wait… what?”
I reached into my purse, pulled out a small black envelope, and handed it to him. “Here’s the bill, babe. But this time, it’s in your name.”
He opened it. Inside was a printed copy of a payment agreement I’d worked out with the restaurant manager earlier. I’d let them know the situation, and they’d agreed—if Ryan couldn’t pay on the spot, they’d keep his driver’s license and give him 48 hours to settle the bill.
The blood drained from his face. “You… what? Are you serious?”
I stood. “Dead serious. I’m not your sugar mama. I’m your girlfriend. And I’m done funding this little charade.”
He tried to whisper something, but the kids were already busy with their phones, oblivious.
“Next time,” I said coolly, “bring your card. Or stay home.”
I walked out, head high, letting him figure out how to explain the situation to the waiter—and his kids.
And guess what?
He never forgot his card again.