Some gifts warm the heart. My husband’s Christmas present? It set my blood on fire. For a whole year, I plotted my perfect revenge. And when he finally unwrapped his gift, the look on his face—that mixture of shock, confusion, and horror—was my true Christmas present.
Have you ever received a gift that made your stomach twist, your hands shake, and your blood boil—all at the same time? I’m not talking about an ugly sweater or that unwanted fruitcake.
I mean the kind of gift that makes you wonder if the person even knows you, or worse, cares at all. That’s what Murphy did to me one Christmas, and it took me a year to get back at him.
Money was always tight in our house. Murphy worked at the metal fabrication plant downtown, pulling double shifts that left his hands calloused and his back aching. He’d come home smelling of metal shavings and machine oil, proud of providing for us but too tired to notice anything else.
Meanwhile, I worked from home, tutoring kids in math and watching neighbors’ children. It wasn’t much, but it helped keep food on the table and lights on. Between mortgage payments and our growing teenagers, every penny was pinched until it screamed.
For sixteen years, we had an unspoken Christmas agreement: presents for our girls, Mia and Emma, and for our parents, but nothing for each other. It worked. Until Murphy decided, without asking me, that this year would be different.
“Susan! Come here! I got something for you!” His voice boomed through the house one evening, ten days before Christmas.
The excitement in his voice made me drop the math worksheet I was grading for little Tommy, who still couldn’t quite wrap his head around long division. I wiped my hands on my apron and walked into the living room.
There he stood, grinning like a kid who’d just discovered a hidden stash of cookies, holding a massive box wrapped in sparkly paper that probably cost more than a week’s groceries.
“What’s this about?” I asked, my heart racing.
“It’s your Christmas present! I know we don’t usually do this, but I wanted to make this year special. Something… big!”
“Murphy, we can’t afford—”
“Just wait till Christmas Eve, Sus! You’ll love it! You’ve never gotten anything like this before!”
I didn’t realize how true that statement would be.
Our daughters peeked around the corner with their art supplies, giggling like little kids instead of the teenagers they were.
“Dad’s been so secretive!” Mia whispered. “He wouldn’t even let us help wrap it!”
“He spent forever in the garage getting it ready, Mom!” Emma added, eyes sparkling with mischief.
That should have been my first warning.
For ten days, the box sat under the tree, silently taunting me. Every time I passed it, I tried to guess what could be inside. Maybe Murphy had secretly saved for something special. Maybe he remembered me admiring that velvety quilt in the store window, or how I missed our broken TV.
Sometimes I’d catch him staring at the box with a proud little smile, like he’d solved all the world’s problems.
Finally, Christmas Eve arrived. Our girls sprawled on the floor by the tree while Murphy’s parents, Eleanor and Frank, settled onto our old couch.
Eleanor kept shooting me those sly, knowing looks, while Frank sipped his coffee with a splash of whiskey, his usual silent commentary on family drama.
The room smelled of cinnamon and pine, thanks to the three cookie-scented candles I’d splurged on at the dollar store.
Christmas carols played softly on the old radio, and outside, the neighbors’ lights cast multicolored shadows through our windows. I placed a tray of brownies on the table and tried to ignore the pit forming in my stomach.
“Open it, Mom!” Emma squealed. “It’s the biggest present under the tree! Even bigger than the one Dad got for Grandma!”
Murphy’s eyes shone as he nodded eagerly. “Go ahead, Sus. Show everyone what Santa brought you.”
I unwrapped the paper, trying to savor the moment, my hands trembling. The girls leaned forward. I lifted the lid.
My heart froze.
“A vacuum cleaner?” I whispered, staring at the gleaming box with cheerful product photos shouting about its “amazing features.”
“Top of the line!” Murphy beamed. “I tested it in the garage… works like a dream! Picks up all the metal shavings! Even the corners!”
The girls exchanged glances and giggled. Eleanor pressed her lips tight, and Frank suddenly became fascinated with his coffee, probably wishing he’d poured in more whiskey.
“Oh, and when you’re done in here,” Murphy added, grinning as though he’d handed me the crown jewels, “make sure it goes back in the garage. Perfect for my workspace! No more metal dust anywhere!”
I bolted to our bedroom, tears streaming as Christmas carols mocked me from downstairs. Murphy followed, his heavy footsteps echoing like thunder.
“A vacuum cleaner? Seriously? Your first Christmas gift to me in sixteen years is a VACUUM CLEANER?”
“What’s wrong with that? Practical! Do you know how much these cost?”
“Practical? You bought a garage vacuum for me and wrapped it up as a present! Might as well have given me a mop and bucket!”
“Don’t be dramatic, Susan. It’s for the whole family—”
“A $5 bracelet would’ve meant more! Something that said ‘I love you,’ not ‘Here’s a tool to clean up after everyone!’”
His face darkened, jaw clenching like when the bills came due.
“You’re acting like a spoiled princess. Remember where you came from—your folks are farmers! They probably don’t even know what a vacuum cleaner is. At least I’m thinking about upgrading our home!”
“GET OUT!” I roared.
“Fine,” he snapped, opening the door. “You’re ridiculous. Most wives would be grateful. Presents are for the family, not for what you want.”
I slept on the couch that night, wrapped in anger and heartbreak. Through the thin walls, I heard Murphy defending himself to his parents.
“She’s being selfish,” I overheard him say.
Eleanor’s soft murmur was lost in the shadows, but Frank’s disapproving grunt echoed clear.
Lying in the dark, watching Christmas lights dance across the ceiling, I began to plan. Revenge, they say, is best served cold—or in my case, wrapped in glittery paper and saved for a full year.
I started saving my tutoring money, carefully calculating every dollar.
The following Christmas, I invited every relative within driving distance—my aunts, uncles, cousins—anyone who could appreciate a good show. Murphy complained about the cost until he saw his gift under the tree. It was the biggest box yet, wrapped in paper that cost $10 a roll.
“What’s this?” he asked, eyes wide like a child.
“Just a little something special. You do so much for us, honey. I wanted this Christmas to be MEMORABLE!”
“Mom went shopping all by herself,” Mia whispered. “She wouldn’t tell us what it is! But she looked so happy coming home.”
“Cost a pretty penny too,” I added, watching Murphy’s excitement grow.
For days, he shook the box when he thought no one was looking, trying to guess what Santa had brought.
Christmas Eve arrived. Our living room overflowed with family. Aunt Martha perched on the couch armrest, Uncle Bill and his kids crowded near the fireplace, even cousin Pete had shown up, intrigued by my hint about “holiday entertainment.”
“Open it, Dad!” Emma urged, phone ready to record.
The wrapper fell away. Murphy’s face went from excited, to confused, to HORROR as he stared at the industrial-sized case of toilet paper.
“What is this?” he sputtered.
“TOILET PAPER!” I announced with flair. “Premium four-ply! Because Christmas isn’t about what we want, it’s about what the family needs. Perfect for the bathroom AND your garage! I even got industrial-sized rolls, since you love ‘practical’ gifts so much!”
Our daughters doubled over laughing. Aunt Martha choked on her eggnog. Uncle Bill slapped his knee, and even cousin Pete fell off his chair.
“Who gives their husband toilet paper for Christmas?” Murphy stammered, face scarlet.
I smiled innocently. “Who gives their wife a vacuum cleaner?”
He stormed upstairs, muttering, while the family erupted in laughter. Eleanor discreetly gave me a high-five.
“Well played, Susan,” Frank chuckled, raising his coffee mug. “Next year, he might think twice about ‘practical’ gifts.”
That was five years ago. Murphy hasn’t mentioned Christmas presents since, and the word “selfish” mysteriously disappeared from his vocabulary.
But just in case, I keep a special shelf in the closet, ready for next year’s wrapping paper. Sometimes the best revenge isn’t served cold—it’s served with a bow on top… and maybe some premium four-ply toilet paper.