I worked all year, skipping treats and selling things, just to save for my dream designer handbag. Then, out of nowhere at a casual Sunday lunch, my husband handed it over to his mom without even asking me. He thought it was no big deal—but he was wrong, and learned that the hard way.
It all began years ago at a neighborhood potluck Jake and I hosted, centered around a casserole.
I had spent hours preparing my grandmother’s spinach artichoke casserole in a cherished vintage baking dish I found at a thrift store.
Our neighbor Sue couldn’t stop praising it.
“This is amazing!” she kept saying, going back for seconds and thirds. “You have to share the recipe!”
At the end of the night, when people were grabbing leftovers, Jake gave Sue the entire baking dish—not just the food but the actual ceramic dish.
“She loved it!” he said, proud like he’d done something huge. “We can always replace it.”
I was stunned. “No, we can’t,” I whispered.
“That was a vintage piece, Jake. You don’t just replace something like that. It means a lot to me.”
He looked confused. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“Please don’t give away my things without asking me first. If you want to gift something from our home, use your own stuff.”
He agreed it wouldn’t happen again. But after eight years of marriage, his habit of giving away my things without permission still drives me crazy.
I love his generous nature—it’s part of why I adore him. He just doesn’t think through how his actions affect me.
I blame how he grew up.
I grew up poor—not just “tight” but truly struggling. Birthdays meant a single cupcake and hand-me-down clothes. My mom stretched every penny. Real milk was a luxury; I wore shoes until they fell apart.
When I finally landed a decent job and financial stability, I set my heart on a Louis Vuitton purse. It was more than just a bag; it symbolized every victory over poverty and doubt.
I saved $1,000 over a year—skipping takeout, freelancing, selling shoes online, avoiding nights out—until I could buy it.
When I finally got it, I cried in the boutique parking lot. It was a milestone. But I never flaunted it; I kept it in its dust bag and only brought it out for special occasions.
Jake knew all this. He saw me work for it and was proud.
That’s why what happened next cut so deep.
Three months later, his mom came over for lunch. I stepped into the kitchen briefly, and when I returned, my purse was gone.
“Have you seen my purse?” I asked Jake.
He smiled and said, “Mom was admiring it, so I told her she could have it.”
I couldn’t believe what I heard. “You gave her my purse?”
He said, “Yeah, she loved it, and you hardly use it.”
Before I could say more, his mom appeared with it, patting it fondly and saying how beautiful it was.
I felt my anger rising but kept calm. After she left, I confronted Jake.
“How could you give away my Louis Vuitton? You know what it meant to me.”
He shrugged. “It’s just a bag. You make good money; you can get another. Besides, Mom does so much for us.”
That was the last straw.
I’d tolerated him giving away my stuff before, but this time was different. It showed he didn’t value what was important to me.
So I decided to teach him a lesson.
Jake loves his Titleist golf clubs more than anything. He spent months researching them, spent his bonus money, and kept them spotless.
When our plumber Travis came by to fix a leak, I saw my chance.
Travis said he’d always wanted to golf but couldn’t afford it. I invited him to try Jake’s clubs.
Less than 30 minutes later, Travis was swinging away in the garage.
I asked him if he wanted to keep the clubs.
The next morning, Jake stormed in, frantic. “Where are my clubs?”
I calmly said, “Travis liked them and needed a set, so I let him have them.”
Jake was furious. “You had no right! Those clubs mean a lot to me. You disrespected my hard work.”
I looked him in the eye and said, “Exactly like how you disrespected me and my hard work when you gave my purse to your mom.”
He was speechless.
Then I said, “Travis needed them and does so much for us. I can’t believe you care more about clubs than helping someone.”
Jake raged and called Travis. Travis assured him the clubs were safe—just hidden behind some boxes.
For two days, Jake was silent.
When he finally spoke, he said, “I didn’t get it before. I do now.”
We talked, unpacking years of misunderstandings.
“The purse was abstract to me,” he admitted. “But it wasn’t just about the bag. It was how I ignored your feelings and what it symbolized.”
He apologized and promised to respect my belongings from now on, but I reminded him of past mistakes with the casserole dish and other things.
He swore this time he meant it and would even buy me a replacement purse.
I told him it wasn’t about replacing the purse, but respecting me—and thinking twice before giving away my things without asking.
A few days later, Jake’s mom texted, “Thanks again for the lovely gift!”
I replied politely, “Let’s have lunch soon. I’ll bring a real gift… wrapped. With a receipt.”
Sometimes, lessons aren’t learned through words, but by feeling the impact of their own actions.