“And this is for you, Moren,” I said.
She took the box, carefully preserving the ribbon. She opened it slowly, then lifted the handbag from the tissue paper. The logo caught the light.
Her eyes lit up.
She turned it in her hands, checked the label, then pulled out her phone and snapped a quick picture of herself holding it.
“Cute,” she said flatly.
She set the bag on the couch beside her like it was nothing more than a pillow.
No thank you.
No real smile.
Eddie frowned, just slightly, but said nothing.
I folded my hands in my lap.
I had done my part.
Now it was their turn.
Eddie cleared his throat.
“Mom, about your gift…” he began.
I looked at him.
He shifted in his seat.
“We didn’t really… we didn’t get you anything this year,” he said.
I sat very still.
“Oh,” I said softly.
“Moren said—” he continued, and I watched his cheeks color. “She said it’s important that you learn to give without expecting anything in return. That Christmas has gotten too materialistic, and, uh, maybe this year you could just enjoy giving.”
He tried to smile, like he was sharing some wise philosophical insight instead of participating in my humiliation.
Moren leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, that small, satisfied smile on her lips.
“It’s not personal,” she added. “We’re all trying to be less attached to stuff, right?”
The words landed like stones.
Silence stretched between us. The tree lights blinked. Somewhere, the air conditioner kicked on.
I could feel my heart thudding in my chest. I could feel years of love and sacrifice being reduced to a “lesson” delivered by a woman who didn’t have the decency to say thank you for a car she hadn’t paid a dime for.
But I did not cry.
I did not beg.
Because tonight wasn’t about gifts anymore.
It was about truth.
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