During our wedding, my husband grabbed a huge piece of cake, smeared it on my face, and started laughing out loud: at that moment, I decided I had to get re:v:enge 😢😢
We’d been together since childhood. Since our school years—always inseparable, the same friends, first love, all like in a romantic movie. At twenty-five, we both knew it was time to start a family. The wedding seemed like the logical next step in our story.
I prepared for that day in every detail: I chose the dress of my dreams, hired a professional makeup artist, paid for expensive treatments—everything to look flawless. When our family and friends gathered, I felt like I was living exactly what I had always dreamed of.
Until the moment we approached the wedding cake.
In our city, there’s a tradition: the bride and groom cut the cake together and give each other a piece. I took the knife, he helped me, and then leaned down to my ear to whisper,
“What if I shove your face in the cake? It would be fun.”
“Don’t even think about it. You’d ruin everything.”
“Okay, okay,” he smiled, and I thought the conversation was over.
But seconds later, he tore off a huge piece of cake and rubbed it all over my face. Then he started laughing uproariously. So did the guests—laughing, clapping, filming with their phones.
“Come on, what do you think of my joke! I told you it would be funny!” he shouted excitedly to his friends.
Everyone was having fun, except me. There I was, in my expensive dress, my hair and makeup ruined, crying. Everything I’d put so much effort into collapsed in an instant.
He was still having fun, until I did something he never would have imagined. 😲😢
When I felt the cold cream and whipped cream spread across my face, tears blurred my vision. It wasn’t just about the cake anymore: in a single instant, that scene destroyed everything the day had represented—respect, love, the promise of marriage. My husband had made me the joke of the night in front of everyone.
I stood still for a few seconds, my hands shaking. He was laughing, the guests were laughing, and I felt more alone than ever. Then, instead of fleeing the room, as my instinct told me to, I did something completely unexpected.
I grabbed a large piece of cake in my hands, lifted it, and without hesitation, slammed it straight into his face. The cream covered his eyes, his hair, and his white shirt. The room fell silent for a moment, then erupted in laughter and applause.
“You didn’t expect that, did you?” “I said, my voice still trembling, but with a firmness I didn’t even know I had.
He blinked, trying to clear it, and looked at me in surprise. At first, he seemed annoyed, but when he saw the guests’ reaction, he burst out laughing again.
“Bravo, Clara! This is a real surprise!”
Many began to applaud, some shouting, “Way to go!” “Equality!” My friends approached me, whispering that I had been brave and had saved the moment.
But inside, I felt something very different.
It wasn’t just a failed joke. It was the first sign that my husband didn’t see me as an equal partner, but as a prop for his amusement.
A moment of public humiliation was enough to make me realize it.
The evening continued, the music covered the tension, and the wedding continued.
But I was no longer the same. As we danced the bride and groom’s waltz, my heart felt heavy, as if I were carrying a stone on my shoulders. A question kept lingering in my head: “If today, on the first day, he ridicules me like this… what will happen next?”
After midnight, when the guests had already left, we were left alone. He was still euphoric, his cheeks flushed with wine and excitement. He took my hand and said:
“Admit it, it was fun. We’ll tell you about it forever!”
At that moment, looking into his eyes, I knew I had to make a decision. I let him think I was laughing with him, but deep down I swore to myself that I would never tolerate disrespect, even if it was disguised as “innocent joking.”
To everyone else, it was just a funny wedding scene. To me, it was the first test of our marriage. And a clear warning: love doesn’t mean accepting everything.
