Have you ever received a gift so thoughtless it left you speechless? Not the usual tacky sweater or a re-gifted fruitcake, but something that made you question if the person even knew you at all. That was my experience one Christmas when my husband, Murphy, handed me a gift that ignited a fire of rage in my chest. And oh, did I plan my revenge.
Money was always tight in our household. Murphy worked long hours at the metal fabrication plant, pulling double shifts to keep our bills paid. Meanwhile, I earned a modest income tutoring math and babysitting neighborhood kids. Every penny counted, and we had an unspoken agreement: Christmas gifts were for the kids and our parents, not for each other. But one year, Murphy decided to break that rule.
Ten days before Christmas, Murphy burst into the living room with a grin plastered across his grease-streaked face and a massive, glittering box in his hands.
“Susan! This one’s for you!” he announced proudly.
The box was nearly as tall as me, wrapped impeccably—a stark contrast to Murphy’s usual tape-and-newspaper style. His excitement was infectious, and despite my better judgment, I started to hope. Maybe he had saved up for something thoughtful—a quilt I had admired or a new television to replace the broken one.
For ten days, that box sat under our tree, taunting me with possibilities. Our daughters, Mia and Emma, giggled every time they passed it, adding to the suspense.
Finally, Christmas Eve arrived. The living room was alive with holiday cheer: twinkling lights, the scent of cinnamon candles, and the hum of Christmas carols from our old radio. Family crowded into our tiny living room as I knelt to unwrap my mysterious gift.
The wrapping paper fell away, and there it was—a top-of-the-line industrial vacuum cleaner.
Murphy beamed. “Tested it myself in the garage! Gets all the metal shavings up—corners too! Oh, and when you’re done using it in the house, it can live in the garage with my tools. Practical, huh?”
The room went silent except for the sound of our daughters’ stifled giggles. My mother-in-law pressed her lips together, and my father-in-law suddenly became very focused on his cup of coffee.
Practical. That word echoed in my head as I fought back tears. A vacuum cleaner wasn’t a gift; it was a task disguised as one. That night, Murphy and I had an explosive argument. He defended his choice, claiming it was expensive and useful. I countered that it was impersonal and inconsiderate.
“A $5 bracelet would’ve meant more,” I told him. “Something—anything—that showed you thought of me as your wife, not your maid.”
He dismissed my feelings, calling me spoiled and selfish. I spent the night on the couch, staring at the Christmas lights reflecting on the ceiling and formulating my plan for next year.
Revenge, as they say, is best served wrapped in glittering paper.
Over the next twelve months, I squirreled away money from tutoring and babysitting, carefully planning the perfect payback. When December rolled around again, I went all out. I invited every relative within driving distance—uncles, aunts, cousins—anyone who could witness the moment.
The star of the evening was Murphy’s gift, a box even bigger than the vacuum cleaner, wrapped in the finest $10-per-roll paper. For weeks, he shook it, inspected it, and speculated about its contents.
On Christmas Eve, surrounded by family, Murphy tore into his gift. His expression morphed from excitement to confusion to sheer horror as he stared at the industrial-sized case of premium four-ply toilet paper.
I clapped my hands together, voice dripping with sweetness. “It’s practical, Murphy! And it’s perfect for both the house and your garage. Isn’t that what matters most?”
The room erupted in laughter. Our daughters were doubled over, Aunt Martha nearly choked on her eggnog, and even stoic Uncle Frank let out a belly laugh. Murphy stormed off upstairs, his face as red as Rudolph’s nose.
That was five years ago, and Murphy hasn’t dared buy me another “practical” Christmas gift since. These days, he sticks to handwritten cards, small jewelry, or even flowers—gifts that say, “I thought about you.”
Sometimes, revenge isn’t cold—it’s wrapped in glittering paper with a big red bow. And occasionally, it comes in a jumbo pack of four-ply toilet paper.
