Every time my husband, Jason, and I went grocery shopping, a peculiar pattern emerged. As we approached the checkout line, his phone would invariably ring. “Oh, babe, I gotta take this!” he’d exclaim, stepping away and leaving me to handle the bill. Initially, I found it amusing, but as this behavior persisted, it became increasingly frustrating. Jason is a wonderful partner—hardworking, humorous, and attentive—but this recurring act was testing my patience.
At first, I dismissed it, thinking marriage requires flexibility. However, after about ten consecutive instances, I recognized a clear pattern. One afternoon, post-shopping, he pulled his usual disappearing act and returned just as I was exiting the store. “Who was that on the phone?” I inquired. “Work stuff,” he replied vaguely, adding, “Thanks for handling checkout. I’ll get it next time.” Spoiler alert: that “next time” never arrived.
Last Saturday, it happened again. Our cart was brimming with groceries—cleaning supplies, meals for the week, his premium coffee, and snacks. As we neared the register, I mentally counted down: three… two… one… ring! Jason’s hand darted to his pocket. “Oh, babe, I gotta take this—work,” he said, already moving towards the entrance, pacing as if negotiating an international peace treaty. Meanwhile, I unloaded our mountain of groceries onto the conveyor belt. The cashier, a kind older woman, gave me a knowing look—the “I see what he’s doing” look. I blushed with embarrassment, which quickly turned to frustration when I saw the total: $347.92.
That night, as Jason slept soundly beside me, I lay awake, contemplating. It was time to teach him a lesson. While he slept, I took his phone—not to snoop, but with a mission. I opened his contacts, found my name, and changed it to “Bank Fraud Department.” Then, I placed his phone back exactly where it was and went to bed with a grin.
The next morning followed our usual routine—sleeping in a bit, having breakfast, and then heading out for groceries. As we filled our cart, my heart raced in anticipation. At the checkout line, I watched Jason’s hand hover near his pocket. Right on cue, his phone rang. He pulled it out, ready to make his usual exit, but then he froze. “Bank Fraud Department” was calling. His face turned pale. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” I asked sweetly. He glanced at me, then at the phone, and back again. “Lauren, this…” he trailed off. I swiped to answer the call. My pre-recorded message played: “Hello, Jason. We’ve detected suspicious behavior on your account. Specifically, you pretending to get a phone call every time it’s YOUR turn to pay at checkout.” Jason’s jaw dropped.
His face turned redder than the tomatoes in our cart. The cashier coughed, hiding a laugh. The couple behind us giggled. Jason said nothing. He just pulled out his wallet and paid the $389.76 without another word. As we left, the cashier gave me a subtle thumbs-up. The ride home was awkwardly quiet. Jason gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. Finally, he said, “That was low, Lauren.” I smiled sweetly. “Lower than leaving me to pay every time?”
He sighed. “Fair.” As we unloaded the groceries, he asked, “How long have you been planning that?” “Not as long as you’ve been faking your calls,” I replied. He chuckled weakly. “Okay, I deserved that.”
Since that day, Jason hasn’t pulled his vanishing act again. In fact, he insists on paying now, sometimes even placing his phone on the counter to prove he’s staying put. And I always keep my smartwatch charged. Just in case.
