After three years of forgotten birthdays and empty promises, my husband finally surprised me with my dream Christmas gift. I was overjoyed until I woke up on Christmas morning and saw my gift in his daughter’s hands. What I did at that moment still haunts me.
Did I go too far? Let me tell you something about my husband, Jim. The man could navigate a big rig across three states in a snowstorm, but ask him to pick out a birthday card?
Forget it. We had been together for three years, and in that time, I received exactly nothing for my birthday. Nothing for our anniversary.
NOTHING. Celebrations came and went without so much as a gas station bouquet. But Mother’s Day?
That was the one that finally broke something inside me. I had spent the morning making Jim’s favorite breakfast. My son Evan, 11 years old and from my first marriage, had used his allowance to buy me a card with a wonky handmade frame.
It was the only acknowledgment I got that day. When Jim came downstairs, I waited. Maybe he had something planned. But he just sat down, ate his breakfast, and kissed my forehead like it was any other Sunday. “It’s Mother’s Day,” I finally said, hating how small my voice sounded.
He looked up from his plate, confused. “Yeah?”
“I just thought maybe we could do something today. Something nice, you know?
Just the three of us. Shopping, maybe.”
Jim set down his fork and gave me this look. “Rebecca, you’re not my mother!
I don’t have to celebrate Mother’s Day with you!”
Those words haunted me. I nodded slowly, my chest feeling heavier. “You’re right.
I’m not.”
I didn’t cry or yell. I just cleared the table around him while he went back to his eggs, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d just changed everything between us. Something inside me shifted that day, something I couldn’t quite put back in place no matter how hard I tried.
Father’s Day rolled around about a month later, and I made sure I was nowhere to be found. Normally, I would’ve been up at dawn making a feast, then driving 45 minutes to pick up Chloe, Jim’s 16-year-old daughter from his first marriage, from her mother’s house so she could spend the day with her dad. But not that day.
I was at the mall when my phone rang around two in the afternoon. Jim’s name flashed across the screen. “Where are you?” He sounded annoyed already.
“Shopping. Why?”
“When are you picking up Chloe?”
I paused. “I have plans today.
Nobody told me I was supposed to pick her up.”
“Rebecca, it’s Father’s Day!”
And there it was… my moment. “Oh, you’re NOT my father, Jim!
So why should I worry about it?”
The silence was deafening before his voice got louder. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”
“Check the table,” I said calmly, and I hung up. The letter I’d left him that morning was three pages long.
I’d written it the night before, trying to put into words what it felt like to constantly give and never receive. He called back two hours later. His voice was different this time, and quieter.
“I read your letter. I didn’t realize. Look, I’m sorry.
I’ll try to be better, I promise.”
I wanted to believe him. “Okay.”
I did end up getting Chloe later that week so they could have their dinner together. Because despite everything, I still couldn’t help but try to make things work.
And truthfully, Jim did try. He started with the “pick something out and I’ll pay for it” approach, which honestly, I didn’t mind. At least, it was an acknowledgment.
I hoped it would last. Big mistake. Then came the week before Christmas, and I woke up to the smell of my favorite caramel latte from the coffee shop across town.
Jim was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding it out to me with something close to pride on his face. “Get dressed,” he said. “We’re going out to eat.
And then we’re going to the mall. You’re picking out your Christmas present.”
I could’ve cried right there. ***
The diner was perfect.
Then we drove to the mall, and Jim took my hand as we walked through the main entrance. I had been saving for months for a new purse. My current one was literally held together with safety pins, the leather cracked and peeling.
I’m not someone who splurges on herself often. Most of my money went to Evan and groceries. But I’d been setting aside $20 here, $30 there, building up my purse fund.
It was a classic designer bag, with chic leather and gold hardware. It was the kind of purse that would last decades. I’d looked at it online so many times that I even had the product number memorized.
When we walked into the department store and I saw it sitting there on the display shelf, I actually gasped. “Is that it?” Jim asked. “That’s it.” My hands were shaking as I reached for it, feeling the buttery soft leather under my fingers.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
