My husband, Jason, is an amazing guy—he works hard, makes me laugh, and never forgets our anniversary (without needing phone reminders!). But he has one habit that’s been driving me absolutely crazy.

Every time we go grocery shopping, like clockwork, Jason suddenly gets a very urgent work call just as we reach the checkout. It’s almost impressive how perfectly timed it is.

“Oh, babe, I need to take this,” he says, disappearing while I’m left to unload the cart and pay the bill.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Marriage is all about teamwork, right? But after the tenth mysterious call that happened exactly at checkout time, I started to see the pattern.

“Who was it this time?” I asked one day as we pushed the cart to the car.

“Oh, just work stuff,” he replied vaguely. “I’ll get it next time.”

Spoiler: Next time never came.

The Last Straw

Last Saturday, I had had enough. We were doing a big shopping run—cleaning supplies, food for the week, and the fancy coffee he insists on. As we neared the checkout, I counted down in my head.

Three… two… one…

RING. RING.

Jason grabbed his phone so fast you’d think it was on fire.

“Jason…” I started, but he cut me off.

“Oh, babe, it’s work—I gotta take this.”

And just like that, he strolled away, pretending to be deep in conversation while I unloaded a mountain of groceries.

The cashier, an older woman with a knowing look, raised an eyebrow at me. She’d seen this happen before. Great, I thought. Even strangers know my husband’s checkout scam.

Then I saw the total—$347.92—and my patience snapped.

That night, as Jason slept soundly beside me, I hatched a plan.

A Perfect Trap

While he was fast asleep, I grabbed his phone—not to snoop, just to set things straight. I found my contact name in his phone and changed it to “Bank Fraud Department.”

Then, using a little tech magic, I set up an automated call that I could trigger from my smartwatch.

The trap was set.

Checkmate

The next morning, everything played out as usual—lazy morning, breakfast, then grocery shopping.

We filled our cart, and as we neared checkout, I watched Jason’s hand inch toward his phone.

I tapped my smartwatch.

RING. RING.

As expected, Jason pulled out his phone and prepared to step away.

“Oh, babe, one sec, I gotta—” He stopped mid-sentence. His face drained of color as he read the caller ID: “Bank Fraud Department.”

I smiled sweetly. “Aren’t you going to answer? That looks important.”

Jason looked between his phone and me, completely panicked. The people in line behind us were watching. The cashier smirked.

I reached over and swiped to answer.

Jason’s phone blared:

“Hello, Jason. We’ve detected suspicious activity on your account—specifically, your habit of pretending to get a phone call every time it’s YOUR turn to pay at checkout.”

The color of his face matched the tomatoes in our cart.

The cashier coughed—probably to hide a laugh. The couple behind us chuckled.

For the first time in months, Jason took out his wallet and paid. $389.76. The cashier gave me a subtle thumbs-up.

“Need help with the bags, sir?” she asked, her voice dripping with amusement.

“No, I got it,” Jason mumbled, grabbing as many bags as he could carry.

Lesson Learned

The car ride home was painfully quiet. Jason gripped the wheel, his jaw tight. Finally, as we pulled into the driveway, he muttered, “That was low, Lauren.”

I tilted my head. “Oh? Lower than disappearing every time it’s your turn to pay?”

He had no response. He’d been caught.

“How long were you planning this?” he asked as we unloaded groceries.

I smirked. “Not as long as you’ve been planning those ‘work calls.’”

“I didn’t plan them!” he protested. “They just… happened.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Every time? At checkout? Like clockwork?”

Jason sighed, looking sheepish. “Okay, maybe I avoided it a little.”

I laughed. “Jason, you’ve made skipping the grocery bill an art form.”

He finally admitted, “Yeah, it was a dumb move.”

“You think?” I teased. “But I gotta give you credit—it was almost as clever as my trick.”

Jason shook his head. “Changing your name to ‘Bank Fraud Department’… that was evil genius level.”

“I did learn from the best con artist,” I said with a dramatic bow.

We laughed, and for the first time in a while, we felt like a team again.

Jason apologized—genuinely—and ever since, his mysterious phone calls have disappeared.

In fact, now, every time we shop, he insists on paying. Sometimes, he even puts his phone on the counter while we check out, as if to prove a point.

I still keep my smartwatch ready. Just in case.