The package sat on her porch for exactly 27 minutes before she opened it. I know because I timed it. What followed was the most spectacular meltdown I’ve ever heard through a phone.
And honestly, it was worth every penny of overnight shipping.
I’ve always considered myself lucky.
At 35, I have a stable job in tech that pays well, a beautiful home in a quiet neighborhood, and most importantly, a wife who makes every day better than the last.
Jane and I met through a mutual friend at a charity fundraiser five years ago, and I still remember the way she laughed at my terrible joke about the silent auction. It was like music.
“You’re staring again,” Jane said one morning as she poured herself coffee. Sunlight streamed through our kitchen window, catching the gold flecks in her hazel eyes.
I grinned.
“Can you blame me?”
“Yes,” she laughed. “But I won’t.”
That’s Jane. Always quick with a comeback, but even quicker with affection.
We don’t have kids yet, though we’ve been talking about it more lately.
For now, it’s just us, and honestly, our life together is pretty great. Jane is everything I could have asked for in a partner.
Everything about our relationship is perfect, except for one glaring complication. Her mother, Celia.
My mother-in-law has always had a…
competitive streak. Especially when it comes to my wife. Every time I give Jane something thoughtful, Celia somehow makes it about herself.
Last month, I gave my wife a beautiful bracelet for her promotion at the marketing firm where she works.
It was white gold with a small diamond pendant.
Jane nearly cried when she opened it.
“Andrew, it’s perfect,” she whispered, immediately putting it on. “You always know exactly what I’d love.”
Two days later, I got a call from Celia while I was at work.
“Hello?” I answered, wedging my phone between my ear and shoulder as I typed an email.
“Must be nice getting fancy jewelry,” she said. “I’ve only been a mother for 32 years, but who cares, right?”
I stopped typing and pinched the bridge of my nose.
“It was a gift for her promotion, Celia.”
“And I’ve never been promoted to anything, apparently,” she huffed. I could practically hear her rolling her eyes.
This wasn’t new.
When I bought Jane a designer handbag for Christmas, Celia spent the entire holiday dinner pointing out how her own purse was “practically falling apart.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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