My Husband Gifted Me a Hand-Made Advent Calendar with Tasks to Please Him Every Day — The Lesson I Taught Him Was Harsh

“What’s this?” I asked, setting down my coffee mug.

He held it up like it was the Mona Lisa. Each of the 24 tiny doors was hand-painted with snowflakes, stars, and reindeer.

“It’s an advent calendar. I made it for you, Mads,” he said, looking way too proud of himself. “Open one each day. You’re gonna love it.”

I blinked, staring at it like it might explode. “You made this… for me?”

“Yup,” he said, still grinning like a kid who’d just aced a math test.

My heart softened. I reached out, running my fingers over the tiny doors. It was beautiful.

“Larry, this is so sweet of you! I can’t believe you did this.”

“Believe it,” he said, puffing out his chest.

I bit my lip to hold back a smile. Maybe this was it. Maybe he was finally getting it — love wasn’t just words, it was action.

On the 1st day of Christmas, my husband gave to me… A recipe for his favorite lasagna.

I woke up the next morning, excited to open the first door. Curling up on the couch with the calendar on my lap, I carefully opened the tiny flap. Inside was… a folded slip of paper.

With growing anticipation, I unfolded it. The words hit me like a bucket of cold water.

“Cook Larry’s favorite lasagna. Extra cheese, no skimping. Serve with garlic bread.”

I snorted, holding up the paper like it was evidence in a courtroom. “Is this… a joke?”

Larry peeked over his newspaper, his grin cocky as ever. “Nope. Start with that. I can’t wait.”

I waited for him to crack, to tell me it was just a gag. He didn’t.

I laughed, the kind of laugh that comes out when you’re too stunned to process reality.

I folded the note and set it on the coffee table, glancing at the calendar suspiciously. This gift had turned strange very fast, but I shrugged it off.

It was Larry’s first attempt at being thoughtful, after all, so I thought he deserved some slack.

I made his lasagna, and served it with garlic bread, all while thinking this was just a rough start. Hopefully, tomorrow would be different.

On the 4th day of Christmas, my husband gave to me… A garage to clean spotlessly.

By Day 4, I realized I’d been duped. Each day, I woke up hoping for something thoughtful — and each day, I was met with requests that ranged from annoying to absurd:

Day 2: “Foot massage after work. Don’t forget the scented lotion.”

Day 3: “Organize my sock drawer. Color-coded, please.”

Day 4: “Clean the garage. Make it spotless!”

All my illusions of Larry’s gift being romantic were shattered. He was just outsourcing his chores!

“This isn’t Christmas cheer, it’s unpaid labor,” I muttered as I flicked the note for Day 4 onto the coffee table. “You seriously want me to clean the garage, Larry? As part of my advent calendar?”

“Come on, Mads, it’s just a bit of fun!” Larry remarked from his spot on the sofa, not even bothering to look away from the game he was watching on TV.

Somehow, as I scrubbed at an oil stain on the garage floor, I still believed there might be something in the advent calendar that could redeem Larry. So I kept on with the calendar, until one day, I snapped.

On the 15th day of Christmas, my husband gave to me… A request for an unforgettable date.

On the morning of Day 15, I was already braced for disappointment. I opened the tiny flap and pulled out the note. As soon as I read it, my blood pressure spiked.

“Plan a romantic date night. Book a fancy restaurant. Make it unforgettable.”

My fingers gripped the paper so tightly that it crumpled. I walked straight into the living room, holding the note like it was Exhibit A.

“So, let me get this straight,” I said, voice dangerously calm. “15 days into this, you’re making me plan a romantic date for you?”

“Yup,” he said, popping a chip into his mouth. “It’s called teamwork, babe.”

Something inside me snapped. Not the loud, dramatic kind of snap — but the quiet, deadly one where everything becomes crystal clear. If Larry wanted to play games, then games we would play.

I smiled sweetly, folding the note and slipping it into my back pocket. “You’re right, honey,” I said, my voice sugar-sweet. “Teamwork.”

I booked us a table at The Sprout & Vine, a vegan restaurant. Larry despises vegan food. Watching him gnaw at a tempeh burger with pure misery in his eyes while I enjoyed my lentil bolognese was worth every penny.

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Larry muttered as we exited the restaurant.

I just smiled.

On the 16th day of Christmas, my husband gave to me… A junk-filled garage I’d already cleaned and now had to organize.

From that day forward, I played along — but I played smart.

The note tucked behind the door for Day 16 was “Organize the garage.”

Oh, I organized it alright. I organized his entire beer coaster collection straight into a donation box. I even threw in that old dartboard he swore he’d fix “someday.”

On the 18th day of Christmas, my husband gave to me… A pile of his shirts to iron just right.

On Day 18, my special advent surprise was to iron Larry’s shirts.

I used so much starch on his work shirts that they could stand up on their own. When he tried to put one on, it looked like he was wearing corrugated cardboard.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” he muttered, tugging at the stiff collar.

Every day, I followed the letter of his notes but bent them to suit my mood. His confusion grew, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece it together. Poor Larry.

On the 24th day of Christmas, my husband gave to me… Specifications for his Christmas gift.

On Christmas Eve, I opened the final note. My eyes scanned the words, and a wicked grin stretched across my face.

“Surprise me with a gift. Make it thoughtful and expensive. It’s the least you could do after this amazing Advent Calendar.”

Oh, Larry. You wanted thoughtful and expensive? You’d get it.

I spent the afternoon wrapping his gift — a large box with a single slip of paper inside. I placed it under the tree and wrote his name in big, bold letters.

On Christmas morning, Larry tore into his present with the eagerness of a child. Tossing aside the paper, he opened the box. His brows knitted in confusion as he pulled out the note.

“Check the garage,” he read aloud, looking at me. “What’s in the garage?”

“Go see!” I said, my face a mask of holiday cheer.

He looked at me with narrowed eyes, but curiosity won out. I trailed behind him as he opened the door and stepped inside.

The garage was empty. His workbench? Gone. His fishing gear? Gone. Every last “Larry item” had vanished.

His jaw dropped. “What the hell?! Where’s all my stuff?”

“Surprise!” I said brightly, handing him the second note. He snatched it, eyes scanning the words.

“I sold your stuff to pay for a spa retreat — FOR ME. I leave tomorrow. Enjoy the peace and quiet!” He read aloud. The color drained from his face. He spun around, sputtering like a busted engine. “You sold my tools?! My fishing gear?! Are you crazy?”

“Nope,” I said, my smile saccharine sweet. “Just spreading Christmas cheer, babe. It’s called teamwork.”

Larry sulked on the couch for the rest of Christmas Day, arms crossed, face like a thundercloud. He didn’t look so smug anymore. I watched him in silence, sipping hot cocoa from my favorite mug.

By the next morning, I was on a plane to a five-star spa retreat where the only thing I had to “organize” was which massage I’d book first. As I soaked in a mineral bath, I smiled to myself, thinking of Larry alone in that empty garage.

By the time I got back, Larry had learned his lesson: Christmas is about giving, not taking advantage of your wife.

But it was too late.

Because I gifted myself the best present of all — filing for divorce.

Here’s another story: After months away, I thought surprising my family on Christmas Eve would be perfect. Instead, I found my sons huddled in our car, claiming their mother was “busy with some man” inside. As my mind raced with dark possibilities, I knew our quiet Christmas reunion was about to turn disastrous.