The Three-Dollar Christmas
The BMW’s red bow gleamed under my son’s Christmas lights like a taunt. I watched from the kitchen window as Marcus handed Linda the keys to her brand-new sixty-thousand-dollar gift, his face bright with pride. “Merry Christmas, Mom-Linda,” he called out, using that ridiculous nickname that made my teeth clench.
My daughter-in-law, Ashley, squealed and clapped like they’d just cured cancer instead of buying a luxury car for a woman who’d been in our family exactly eight months. Me? Well, let me show you what my loving son got his actual mother.
I held up the pink plastic piggy bank, shaking it so the three lonely dollar bills inside rustled like dead leaves. Three dollars. After thirty-five years of raising him—after every sacrifice I’d made, every penny I’d spent on his college education, his wedding, his down payment—three dollars.
“It’s symbolic,” Marcus had explained with that patronizing tone he’d perfected since marrying Ashley. “You’re always saving money, Mom, so we thought this would be perfect.”
Perfect. I watched Ashley link arms with Linda, both of them admiring the leather interior like schoolgirls.
Linda had swooped into our family after my dear husband, Tom, passed two years ago, appearing at every family gathering with perfectly styled silver hair and designer clothes. Somehow, she’d managed to become “Mom-Linda,” while I—the woman who actually birthed Marcus—had been demoted to just “Mom,” and apparently only worth three dollars. I’d spent the morning cooking their Christmas dinner—standing in my kitchen for six hours preparing honey-glazed ham, homemade rolls, green bean casserole, and that ridiculous trifle Ashley insisted on.
My feet ached. My back screamed. My hands were raw from washing dishes.
But hey—at least I got three dollars out of the deal. The front door opened, and Ashley’s voice carried through the house. “Dot, we’re heading out to show Mom-Linda her new car around town.”
Not Would you like to come?
Not Want to join us? Just an announcement. I heard Marcus call out, casual as a receipt.
“Thanks for dinner, Mom. We’ll see you next week.”
Next week. When they needed something, no doubt.
The house fell silent except for the hum of the dishwasher and the steady tick of the grandfather clock Tom had loved. That’s when I noticed Linda’s purse sitting on my counter, forgotten in her excitement over her shiny new toy. A black leather Kate Spade bag that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
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