For years, New Year’s dinner at my place wasn’t just a tradition; it was an expectation. It followed a predictable, exhausting pattern. I would spend days planning, shopping, and cooking. I’d scrub the house until it sparkled before everyone arrived, and I’d spend hours cleaning up the wreckage after they left. One year, I calculated the cost: $700 to feed seven people. I paid for every steak, every bottle of wine, and every appetizer. Meanwhile, my guests showed up with empty hands and massive appetites. They never offered to chip in, and they never even brought a side dish. I did it all because I loved them, but eventually, the weight of being the sole provider for their holiday fun became too much to bear.
This year, I decided things had to change. I didn’t want to cancel; I just wanted some help.
I sent a message to our group chat: “I’m happy to host again this year, but with prices going up, I’d love it if we could all split the cost of the food and drinks.” I thought it was a reasonable request among friends and family. I was wrong.
The responses were immediate and incredibly ugly. The group chat exploded. “So you’re charging admission now?” one person asked. Another chimed in, “If you can’t afford to host, you should just say that instead of asking us for money.” A third person added, “Hosting was your idea in the first place, so why is it our problem?”
In that moment, everything clicked. They didn’t see my years of hosting as an act of generosity; they saw it as a free ride they were entitled to. The second I asked for a contribution, I wasn’t a “gracious host” anymore—I was a burden. The realization stung. They weren’t there for my company; they were there for the $700 spread.
So, I didn’t argue. I didn’t explain myself or try to justify my finances. I simply typed: “In that case, I’m not hosting this year.” I hit send and put my phone away.
Two days later, a friend who rarely speaks in the group chat sent me a private message. They told me that the group had already moved on. They had picked a different location for the party and, ironically, they had all agreed to split the costs. They were even calling it their “new tradition.”
That was the final blow. It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford to pay; it was that they didn’t want to pay me. They were perfectly fine sharing the bill as long as they weren’t at my house. They didn’t miss me or my home; they just missed the person who funded their evening.
I didn’t stage a grand confrontation or send a long, dramatic goodbye. I just quietly left the group chat. For the first time in a decade, my New Year feels lighter. I’m not celebrating with a crowd, but I’ve finally stopped paying for a seat at a table where I was never truly valued.
