Some gifts make your heart melt. My husband’s Christmas present? It set my blood on fire. I spent a whole year plotting the perfect revenge, and when he finally unwrapped his gift, the look on his face was the sweetest Christmas present I could ever imagine.
Have you ever received a gift that made your stomach drop and your blood boil at the same time? I’m not talking about an ugly sweater or a fruitcake nobody wants.
I mean a gift that makes you question whether the person who gave it to you even knows you—or even cares. That was my Christmas reality, thanks to my husband, Murphy.
Money had always been tight in our house.
Murphy worked at the metal fabrication plant downtown. He pulled double shifts, coming home with calloused hands and an aching back. He smelled of machine oil and metal shavings, proud of providing for our family but too exhausted to notice anything else.
I made what I could by tutoring kids in math and babysitting neighbors’ children. It wasn’t much, but it kept food on the table and the lights on. Between the mortgage and teenagers with endless appetites, we pinched every penny until it practically screamed.
For years, we had a simple agreement about Christmas: we would buy gifts for the girls and our parents, but nothing for each other. It had worked for sixteen years—until Murphy decided to change the rules without telling me.
“Susan! Come here! I got something for you!” Murphy’s voice boomed across the house, ten days before Christmas.
I dropped the math worksheet I was grading for little Tommy, who was still struggling with long division. Wiping my hands on my apron, I walked into the living room.
There he stood, grinning like a kid who’d just discovered the cookie jar. A massive box sat in the middle of the room, wrapped in shiny, sparkly paper that must have cost more than our weekly groceries.
“What’s this about?” I asked, my heart racing.
“It’s your Christmas present!” he said, practically bouncing on his heels. “I know we don’t usually do this, but this year I wanted something special. Big! You’re gonna love it!”
“Murphy, we can’t afford—”
“Just wait, Sus! You’ve never gotten anything like this before, I promise.”
And oh, was he right—though not in the way he imagined.
Our daughters, Mia and Emma, peeked around the corner with their art supplies, giggling like the little kids they used to be, not the teenagers they were now.
“Dad’s been so secretive about it,” Mia whispered. “He wouldn’t even let us help wrap it!”
“He spent forever in the garage!” Emma added, eyes sparkling. “It was like he was hiding treasure!”
That should have been my first warning.
For ten long days, the box sat under the tree, silently taunting me. Every time I passed, I tried to guess what could be inside. Maybe he’d saved up all year for something special.
Maybe he remembered me admiring a quilt in a store window—or how much I missed having a working TV since ours broke last spring.
Sometimes I caught him staring at it with that smug little smile, like he’d solved all the world’s problems.
Christmas Eve arrived in a flurry. Our girls sprawled on the floor near the tree, while Murphy’s parents settled onto our worn couch. Eleanor, his mother, kept shooting me knowing looks. Frank, his father, nursed his coffee with a splash of whiskey.
The room smelled of cinnamon and pine, thanks to three cookie-scented candles I’d splurged on from the dollar store. Soft Christmas carols played from the old radio, while the neighbors’ lights painted colorful shadows on the walls. I set a tray of brownies on the table, trying to keep calm.
“Open it, Mom!” Emma squealed. “It’s the biggest present under the tree! Bigger than the one Dad got for Grandma!”
Murphy nodded enthusiastically, tapping his work boots on the carpet. “Go ahead, Sus. Show everyone what Santa brought!”
I unwrapped the paper, my fingers trembling. The girls leaned forward, faces full of excitement. I lifted the lid.
My heart stopped.
“A vacuum cleaner?” I whispered, staring at the shiny box with its cheerful product photos.
“Top of the line!” Murphy crowed. “I tested it in the garage. Works like a dream! Gets all the metal shavings! Even the corners!”
The girls exchanged glances, giggling. Eleanor pressed her lips together as hard as she could, and Frank suddenly studied his coffee mug like it held the answers to life.
“And when you’re done using it in here,” Murphy added with a grin, “make sure to put it back in the garage. Suction is perfect for my workspace! No more metal dust anywhere!”
I ran to our bedroom, furious, with him thundering after me. I slammed the door, collapsed on the bed, and wept.
“A vacuum cleaner? Your first Christmas gift to me in sixteen years is a VACUUM CLEANER?” I shouted.
“It’s practical! Do you know how much these cost?” Murphy argued.
“Practical? You bought yourself a garage vacuum and wrapped it as my gift! Might as well have given me a mop!”
“It’s for the whole family!” he snapped.
“A $5 bracelet would’ve meant more! Something that said, ‘I love you,’ not ‘Here’s another way to clean after everyone!’”
His jaw clenched. “You’re acting like a spoiled princess. Remember where you came from—your folks are farmers! Do they even know what a vacuum is? At least I’m upgrading our home!”
“Get out!” I screamed. “GET. OUT.”
He stormed off, muttering about my “ridiculous” attitude. That night, I slept on the couch, rage and heartbreak swirling in my chest. Through the walls, I heard him telling his parents I was “selfish,” Eleanor whispering something inaudible, and Frank grunting in agreement.
As I lay there staring at the neighbor’s Christmas lights dancing across the ceiling, a plan formed in my mind. Revenge, I decided, was going to be wrapped in glittery paper—and waited an entire year.
The next Christmas, I invited every relative within driving distance: aunts, uncles, cousins—anyone who would enjoy a show. Murphy grumbled about the expense until he saw the gift under the tree.
“What’s this?” he asked, eyes lighting up.
“Just a little something special,” I said sweetly. “You do so much for us. This year, Christmas has to be memorable!”
“Mom went shopping alone,” Mia whispered. “She wouldn’t even tell us what it was!”
“Cost a pretty penny too,” I added, watching his eyes widen.
He spent days shaking the box when he thought no one was watching, trying to guess what was inside.
Christmas Eve arrived. The living room buzzed with excitement. Aunt Martha perched on the armrest, Uncle Bill and his three kids crowded the fireplace, even cousin Pete—who never came to family gatherings—had shown up.
“Open it, Dad!” Emma said, phone ready to record. “The suspense is killing us!”
The wrapping came off. Murphy’s face went from excitement to confusion to absolute horror. Inside was an industrial-sized case of toilet paper. Premium four-ply, “extra soft comfort,” boldly labeled “Perfect for home AND workshop use!”
“What is this?” he sputtered.
I stood tall, channeling my inner game show host. “Premium four-ply toilet paper! Christmas isn’t about what we want—it’s about what the family needs. Right, honey? And this will be perfect for the bathroom AND your garage! I even got the industrial size, since you love practical gifts so much!”
Our daughters doubled over laughing. Aunt Martha choked on her eggnog. Uncle Bill slapped his knee. Cousin Pete fell off his chair. Even Eleanor gave me a secret high-five.
“Who gives their husband toilet paper for Christmas?” Murphy’s face turned scarlet.
I smiled angelically. “Who gives their wife a vacuum cleaner?”
He stormed upstairs, muttering under his breath. The family erupted in laughter and approval.
“Well played, Susan,” Frank chuckled, raising his coffee mug. “Maybe next year he’ll think twice about ‘practical’ gifts.”
Five years have passed. Murphy hasn’t mentioned Christmas presents since, and the word “selfish” has vanished from his vocabulary.
But just in case he ever gets another bright idea about “practical” gifts, 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.