Every time we went to the grocery store, my husband Jason managed to pull the same trick. Without fail, as we reached the checkout line, his phone would conveniently ring. “Oh babe, I gotta take this,” he’d say, already walking away as I stood there with a cart full of groceries and a growing total on the screen. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Marriage is all about balance, right?

Sometimes one person covers the bill, sometimes the other. But after the tenth time this “emergency call” happened right as it was time to pay, I realized there was a pattern. Jason wasn’t just getting calls—he was getting out of paying. And I was getting tired of it.

Last Saturday was the breaking point. We had loaded up the cart with all our usuals and then some—cleaning supplies, snacks, fancy coffee that only he drinks. As we rolled up to the checkout, I braced myself. Three… two… one… right on cue, his phone rang. Jason’s hand darted to his pocket faster than I’d ever seen. “Babe, I gotta take this—work.” Off he went, pacing by the entrance, looking like he was closing some huge deal. Meanwhile, I unloaded the groceries onto the belt, resigned but fuming.

The cashier, an older woman with a knowing smile, gave me that look—you know the one. I could almost hear her thinking, “Girl, I’ve seen this before.” My cheeks burned as I swiped my card to cover a $347.92 bill. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Jason snored away, blissfully unaware, while I lay awake, stewing. But then, an idea came to me. If Jason could play games, so could I. The next morning, while he was still asleep, I quietly grabbed his phone. I wasn’t interested in reading messages—I trusted him.

This was about something else. I scrolled to my contact and changed my name to “Bank Fraud Department.” Then I put the phone back, crawled into bed, and smiled. The trap was set. Saturday morning rolled around again, and we went about our usual routine. Breakfast, errands, and then off to the grocery store. As we shopped, I kept my cool. Jason was his usual charming self, throwing extra chips in the cart and cracking jokes. I played along, biding my time. As we neared the checkout line, I casually tapped my smartwatch.

RING. RING. Jason’s eyes lit up, relief washing over him. He pulled out his phone, preparing to slip away yet again. But then he froze. “Bank Fraud Department” flashed on his screen. His face went pale. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” I asked sweetly. He stared at the phone, panic clear on his face. “Lauren…” he started, but I wasn’t letting him off that easy. “It looks important,” I said, and reached over to swipe “Answer” for him. A pre-recorded message blared from the phone. “Hello, Jason. We’ve detected suspicious behavior on your account. Specifically, pretending to get a phone call every time it’s your turn to pay at checkout.” His jaw dropped.

I watched him flush red, the exact color of the tomatoes in our cart. The cashier stifled a laugh. The couple behind us giggled outright. Jason stood there, speechless. “That was an important call,” I said, smirking. Slowly, he pulled out his wallet and paid—$389.76. The cashier gave me a thumbs up as Jason carried the bags to the car in awkward silence. On the ride home, he finally broke the silence. “That was low,” he muttered. “Lower than ditching me at checkout every time?” I shot back. He had no answer. As we unpacked the groceries, he admitted, “Okay, maybe I’ve been avoiding it a bit.” “A bit?” I laughed. “Jason, you turned it into an Olympic event.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. It was stupid.” “And pretty clever,” I admitted. “But not as clever as your fraud department trick,” he said, shaking his head. “How did you even think of that?” “I was tired of the cashier giving me that look,” I said.

Jason winced. “They noticed?” “Everyone noticed,” I replied. “You weren’t exactly subtle.” From that day on, Jason hasn’t faked a call once. In fact, he insists on paying most of the time now, even putting his phone face-up on the counter as proof. But I keep my smartwatch charged—just in case.