Let me tell you something about my husband, Jim. The man could navigate a heavy big rig across three states in the middle of a blinding snowstorm, but ask him to pick out a simple birthday card or remember an anniversary? Forget it. It just wasn’t in his DNA.
We had been together for three long years, and in that time, I received exactly nothing for my birthday. Nothing for our anniversary. Absolutely nothing. Celebrations came and went without so much as a gas station bouquet or a “Happy Birthday” text. I tried to be understanding, telling myself he was just a “practical man,” but Mother’s Day was the one that finally broke something inside me.
I had spent that morning making Jim’s favorite breakfast, the smell of bacon and coffee filling the house. My son Evan, who is eleven and from my first marriage, had used every cent of his allowance to buy me a card and put it in a wonky, handmade frame. It was the only acknowledgment I received that day. When Jim finally came downstairs, I waited, hoping maybe he had a surprise planned. But he just sat down, shoveled in his eggs, and kissed my forehead like it was any other Sunday morning.
“It’s Mother’s Day,” I finally said, hating how small and desperate my voice sounded.
He looked up from his plate, genuinely confused. “Yeah?”
“I just thought maybe we could do something today. Something nice, you know? Just the three of us. Maybe go shopping or to the park.”
Jim set down his fork and gave me a look that chilled me to the bone. “Rebecca, you’re not my mother! I don’t have to celebrate Mother’s Day with you!”
Those words haunted me for weeks. I didn’t cry or yell; I just silently cleared the table around him while he went back to his breakfast, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d just shattered our connection. Something inside me shifted that day, something I couldn’t quite put back in place.
So, when Father’s Day rolled around a month later, I made sure I was nowhere to be found. Normally, I’d be up at dawn making a feast and then driving forty-five minutes to pick up Chloe, Jim’s sixteen-year-old daughter from his first marriage, so she could spend the day with him. But not this time. I was at the mall when my phone rang around two in the afternoon.
“Where are you?” Jim sounded annoyed.
“Shopping. Why?” I replied calmly.
“When are you picking up Chloe?”
I paused, savoring the moment. “I have plans today. Nobody told me I was supposed to pick her up.”
“Rebecca, it’s Father’s Day!” he shouted.
And there it was. My moment. “Oh, you’re not my father, Jim! So why should I worry about it?”
The silence on the other end was deafening. I told him to check the table and hung up. On that table was a three-page letter I’d written the night before, pouring out my heart about what it felt like to constantly give and never receive. He called back two hours later, his voice quiet and defeated. “I read your letter. I didn’t realize. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll try to be better, I promise.”
I wanted to believe him. And truthfully, Jim did try. He started letting me pick things out for him to pay for, which I didn’t mind—it was at least an acknowledgment. Then came the week before Christmas. I woke up to the smell of my favorite caramel latte, and Jim was sitting on the edge of the bed with a look of pride.
“Get dressed,” he said. “We’re going to the mall. You’re picking out your Christmas present.”
I had been saving for months for a new designer purse. My current one was literally held together with safety pins, the leather peeling and cracked. I’d set aside twenty or thirty dollars at a time, building up my fund. It was a classic bag—chic leather, gold hardware, the kind that lasts decades. When we walked into the department store and I saw it, I actually gasped.
“Is that it?” Jim asked.
“That’s it.” My hands were shaking as I felt the buttery soft leather.
When Jim saw the price tag, his face tightened, but he didn’t back down. “You deserve it,” he said firmly. “But this is your main gift, okay? I can’t afford much else.”
I was overjoyed. I actually squealed when he handed over his card. On the drive home, Jim asked if it was okay to take Chloe shopping later. He told me to leave the purse in the car. “I bought you something small a few weeks ago,” he whispered. “I want to put it inside the purse so you can find it on Christmas morning.”
I kissed him, genuinely thankful that he was trying.
Christmas morning arrived. We were headed to Jim’s mother’s house for dinner, and I fell asleep in the passenger seat. When I woke up, we were on the highway and Chloe was in the backseat. I turned around to say hello, and my heart stopped. Chloe was holding my purse. My beautiful, brand-new, designer purse.
“Where did you get that?” I asked, my voice trembling.
The car went silent. Jim stared straight ahead at the road. “Chloe? Where did you get that purse?”
She looked at me with a smug, defiant grin. “Dad gave it to me. He said I deserved something nice.”
Jim finally spoke, his voice low. “She saw it in the car when we went shopping. She fell in love with it, Rebecca. She’s sixteen, she’s going through a hard time… I thought you’d understand.”
I didn’t understand. I told him to pull over at the next gas station. I didn’t yell; I was beyond that. I made them both get out. “This is my car, Jim. And those are the presents I bought for your family in the trunk.”
I drove away, leaving them stranded on the side of the highway on Christmas Day.
It’s been months now. I haven’t spoken a word to Chloe. At home, I only set two places for dinner—one for me and one for Evan. Jim sits there, watching us eat, but I don’t acknowledge his presence. He tries to reach for me at night, begging to talk, but I just turn my back.
He tells me I’m the villain for leaving them stranded. I tell him he gave away the only thing I’d asked for in three years. I spent years bending over backwards for a man who couldn’t remember a birthday, and when he finally gave me a crumb, he took it back to give to someone else.
So I’m asking: Am I wrong? Am I the villain? Or am I just a woman who is finally done accepting crumbs and calling it a feast?
