Dating Marcus had been great for the first few months, but there was this one thing he did that started to drive me crazy. Every week, we went out to dinner with his two kids, a sweet pair of preteens, and without fail, when the bill came, Marcus would slap his pockets, give me a sheepish grin, and say, “Oh no, I forgot my card again.”
At first, I brushed it off. Things happen, right? But after the fifth time, I began to notice a pattern. He never ‘forgot’ his card when we were out alone—only when his kids were with us. And who ended up paying? Me. Every. Single. Time.
Now, I adore his kids. They’re polite, funny, and an absolute joy to be around. But the more Marcus conveniently ‘forgot’ his wallet, the more I started feeling like I was being taken advantage of.
One night, fresh off my paycheck, Marcus suggested we go out to one of the nicer restaurants in town. The kids were excited, and so was I—at first. We arrived, got seated, and then Marcus gave the kids free rein of the menu, encouraging them to order whatever they wanted. Starters, drinks, desserts—the works.
I watched in disbelief as the bill climbed higher and higher. By the time the server placed the final dish on the table, I knew we were about to rack up a massive tab. But this time, I wasn’t anxious. I was ready.
The moment of truth arrived when the server dropped the bill on the table. Predictably, Marcus patted his pockets, gave me the same worn-out grin, and said, “Oops, forgot my card again.”
But this time, I didn’t reach for my wallet.
Instead, I leaned back in my chair, smiled sweetly, and said, “Oh no, I forgot mine too.”
Marcus froze, his face turning pale. “What do you mean?” he stammered, clearly unprepared for my response.
“I forgot my wallet too,” I repeated, nonchalantly sipping my drink. “Guess we’ll have to figure something else out.”
His eyes darted to the server, who was now standing there awkwardly, waiting. “Uh… I… I’ll be right back,” he stuttered, jumping up from the table and rushing out the door, presumably to ‘find’ his card in the car.
While Marcus was gone, I casually explained the situation to the server and handed them enough cash to cover my portion of the meal—just mine. I wasn’t about to let the kids suffer because of Marcus’ behavior, but I wasn’t about to pay for his antics either.
When Marcus came back, empty-handed and flustered, I stood up, grabbed my coat, and smiled at his stunned expression. “You can figure out the rest,” I said calmly before walking out, leaving him to deal with the bill.
Later, he called, frantic and angry, asking why I’d left him stranded like that. But I didn’t feel guilty. “Marcus,” I said, “you’ve been ‘forgetting’ your card for months, and I’ve had to cover for you every time. This was just a little reminder that I’m not your bank.”
Needless to say, that was the last time Marcus forgot his card.
