I wore the emerald-green dress he once said made me look like a movie star. I curled my hair, painted my nails, and told myself not to get too excited. But deep down, I believed this was it—the night Ryan would propose.
Three years together. Countless conversations about our future. A reservation at a candlelit downtown restaurant. A “surprise” he teased all week. I didn’t need a ring to feel loved. But I wanted the gesture. The commitment. The moment.
Instead, I got a punchline.
After the entrees, the waiter brought out dessert—a small cake with icing that read: “Congrats on Your Promotion!”
I stared at it.
There was no promotion. I’d lost it days earlier to a fresh graduate named Matt. I’d mentored him. Led the biggest client project. Stayed late for months. But corporate whispers said I was “too close to marriage,” “likely to vanish for maternity leave.” I was 29. Apparently, that made me a liability.
I’d cried in my car. I hadn’t told many people. Just Ryan.
And now, here it was—my heartbreak, turned into a joke.
He grinned. “It’s manifesting good vibes,” he said. “You weren’t close anyway. This is the only ‘congrats’ you were gonna get.”
The table went quiet. I paid my share and left.
Three days later, I threw a party.
Ryan loved themed events—especially ones about himself. So I planned one. Black and gold balloons. A banner that read: “Congrats on Becoming Bald!” A cake that mirrored mine: “Manifesting It Early!”
He walked in and froze. His friends laughed. I smiled. “Good vibes, right?”
He called me petty. I called him cruel.
By the end of the night, he stormed out. One of his friends stayed behind. He said Ryan hadn’t treated me right. He asked if I was free that weekend.
I smiled. “Only if you’re not afraid of a theme party.”
That night, I stopped waiting for someone to choose me. I chose myself.
