ped a mop and bucket!”

“Don’t be dramatic, Susan.

It’s for the whole family—”

“A $5 bracelet would have meant more! Just something that showed you thought of me as your wife and NOT your MAID! Something that said ‘I love you,’ not ‘Here’s another way to clean up after everyone!’”

His face darkened, jaw clenching like it did when the bills came due.

“You’re acting like a spoiled princess.

Remember where you came from. Your folks are farmers! Do they even know what a vacuum cleaner is?!

At least I’m thinking about upgrading our home!”

“Get out!” I roared. “GET. OUT.”

“Fine,” he snapped, yanking the door open.

“You’re being ridiculous. It’s a good gift! Most wives would be grateful!

Because presents are something a family could use, not what you would want.”

That night, I slept on the couch, wrapped in rage and heartache. Through the thin walls, I could hear Murphy telling his parents I was being “selfish” about the whole thing.

Eleanor’s murmured response was too quiet to make out, but Frank’s grunt of disapproval came through clearly.

As I lay there in the dark, watching the neighbors’ Christmas lights dance across our ceiling, a plan began to form in my head. Revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold, or in this case, wrapped in glittery paper and waiting an entire year.

I smiled into the darkness, already calculating how much I’d need to save from my tutoring money to make it perfect.

The following Christmas, I invited every relative within driving distance.

Aunts, uncles, cousins — anyone who might appreciate a good show.

Murphy grumbled about the expense until he spotted his gift under the tree. It was the biggest box of all, wrapped in paper that cost $10 a roll this time.

“What’s this?” he asked, eyes lighting up like a child’s.

“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 chimed in. “She wouldn’t even tell us what it is! But she looked so happy when she came home.”

“Cost a pretty penny too,” I added, watching Murphy’s eyes grow wider.

He spent the next few days shaking the box when he thought no one was looking, like a kid trying to guess what Santa brought.

Christmas Eve arrived again.

Our living room was packed with family, all eyes on Murphy as he approached his present.

Aunt Martha perched on the armrest of the couch, while Uncle Bill and his three kids crowded around the fireplace.

Even cousin Pete, who never came to family gatherings, had shown up after I hinted there would be some “holiday entertainment.”

“Open it, Dad!” Emma urged, her phone ready to record the moment. “The suspense is killing everyone!”

The gift wrapper fell away. Murphy’s face went from excitement to confusion to HORROR as he stared at the industrial-sized case of toilet paper in the box.

It was premium four-ply, with “extra soft comfort” plastered across the box in cheerful letters, and “perfect for home AND workshop use!” printed in bold red.

“What is this?” he sputtered, “TOILET PAPER??”
I stood up, channeling my best game show host voice.

“It’s premium four-ply toilet paper!

Because 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 so hard it echoed, while his kids collapsed in fits of giggles.

Cousin Pete actually fell off his chair.

“Who gives their husband toilet paper for Christmas?” Murphy’s face turned scarlet as he looked around the room full of amused relatives.

I smiled angelically. “Who gives their wife a vacuum cleaner?”

He stormed upstairs, muttering under his breath, while the family erupted in laughter and approval. Even Eleanor gave me a subtle high-five when no one was looking.

“Well played, Susan,” Frank chuckled, raising his coffee mug in salute.

“Well played indeed. Maybe next year he’ll think twice about ‘practical’ gifts.”

That was five years ago. Murphy hasn’t mentioned Christmas presents since, and “selfish” has mysteriously disappeared 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 to wrap it in.