At Christmas, Mom Slapped My Son And Said, ‘He Should Be Grateful.’…

At Christmas my mom slapped my son and said he should be grateful. I destroyed her with one move.

This morning 51 missed calls filled my phone. Michael is my name. I’m 40 years old.

The Reliable Son and the Golden Child

I’ve been the reliable one for the majority of my adult life. I am the person who comes to clean mom’s gutters when her automobile breaks down.

She has to go three hours each way when the heating bill is due in February and she is short. She is the one who wires money.

I never expressed gratitude. That’s what sons do, isn’t that why I did it? That’s the role of family.

However, my sister Emily has always been unique. Mom treated her like royalty even though she was three years younger than me.

Everything has always been given to Emily. I had a rusting Civic and a new automobile at 16.

I worked nights to pay for my community college tuition. While my college tuition was entirely paid, while my courthouse ceremony six years prior received a card in the mail, her wedding cost $18,000, which her mother somehow managed to pay for.

It didn’t matter, I told myself. I reminded myself that love has no monetary or attentional value.

I knew though, that deep down, you don’t want to look too closely. I was aware that I was the fallback option, the reliable letdown, and the son who would always be there, so why even try to make him feel special?

A Single Father’s Struggle

Oliver is eight years old. Even though his mother has been gone for three years, he still has my eyes and her smile.

Cancer quickly took her. All of a sudden, I was a single father attempting to organize parent-teacher conferences and establish nighttime rituals.

Mom first assisted. She would bring over casseroles for dinner, which I would reheat, and watch Oliver when I had to work late.

Even so, I could see the difference. A magazine-style baby shower was thrown by Emily’s mother when her twins were born.

There was a gift table that could have filled a nursery twice over, balloons, and food that was catered. I received a call and a card containing $75 when Oliver was born.

Emily’s children, Sophie and Luke, are now nine years old. The card read for the baby, not even his name.

They attend a private school, play travel soccer, and take piano lessons. They have magicians and bounce houses at their birthday parties.

At a pizza shop where the animatronic band hadn’t performed in five years, Oliver celebrated his last birthday. He didn’t voice any complaints; he never does. Like me, he has learned to have low expectations.

The Christmas Eve Invitation

December arrived in a gloomy and chilly manner. While I was assisting Oliver with his arithmetic homework on a Tuesday night, mom gave me a call.

“You’re attending the dinner on Christmas Eve, Michael?” Mom asked.

“Yes, mother, we’ll be present.” I replied.

“Excellent. The twins are coming with Emily. Family time will be pleasant.” She said.

Her voice had a tightness to it, as if she wanted to say more but refrained. I ought to have taken note of that.

I didn’t know even though I should have. I simply hung up after saying:

“We’ll bring dessert.”

After Oliver had gone to sleep that night, I sat on his bed. He had a small yet cozy room.

There were astronaut posters on the walls and a bookshelf with books from the library that we would return the following week. His little chest rose and fell beneath his cover, giving him a serene appearance.

I pondered whether he observed the way Emily’s children entered a room and how grandma’s eyes brightened. I wondered if he could tell the difference between her voice when she spoke to others and when she spoke to him.

Even when we think they don’t, children are aware of everything. I returned to the living room after giving him a forehead kiss.

With the exception of the refrigerator’s hum, the flat was silent. I glanced at the wall-mounted calendar.

Red marker was used to circle December 24th. Family supper on Christmas Eve.

That’s what family does, I thought. Arrive, smile, and act as though nothing happened.

I believed I was imparting resilience to Oliver, teaching him that happiness doesn’t require much. I was instructing him to take crumbs without realizing it.

An Extravagant Evening

When we got there, the house smelled of pine and cinnamon. Mom’s decorations were extravagant.

The handrail of the staircase was encircled with white lights. A huge tree with exquisitely arranged decorations stood in the corner.

Every entryway had garland hung over it. Somewhere there was a speaker playing mild Christmas music.

Ben, Emily’s husband, and the twins were already there with their matching sweaters and glossy shoes. Sophie and Luke looked like they had just stepped out of a catalog.

Oliver was dressed in a button-up shirt that I had ironed that morning and his finest pants. With tiny hands, he grasped a plate of brownies that we had prepared together, taking care not to tip it.

“They’re there.” Mom’s voice was clear, but she hardly looked at any of us before focusing on Emily.

“Enter, enter, we’re almost done with dinner.” She said.

The long dining table was where we ate green beans, mashed potatoes, ham, and still-warm bread. Like water around a stone, conversation swirled around me.

Emily discussed the school play of the twins. Ben talked about getting promoted at work.

When it was only Oliver and me, I hardly ever saw mom’s face so alive and lively as when she laughed at every story. Oliver sat quietly next to me, taking slow, deliberate chews of his food.

I observed his eyes tracking the pricey watch on the boy’s wrist as he glanced at Luke across the table. Luke was using a smartwatch at the age of nine.

Last Christmas, Oliver had begged for one. I had purchased a standard watch for him from Target.

The Gift of Nothing

Mom rose up and slapped her hands together after supper.

“Okay everybody, it’s gift time.” She said.

She vanished down the hallway and came back carrying a bunch of gift bags. They were elegant ones with ribbons knotted to the handles and tissue paper dripping from the tips.

My stomach grew constricted. I didn’t bring any presents.

Earlier in the month, mom had advised against worrying about presents this year.

“Just come and spend time together.” She had said.

I saw her give Sophie the first bag. The girl’s expression brightened.

She reached inside and took out a box containing the newest generation of iPhone. Luke received the same.

Ben then received a wallet made of leather. After months of discussion, Emily finally acquired the expensive handbag she had her eye on.

Mom distributed bags as she went around the table, including one for herself. Everyone chuckled at Emily’s humorous gift.

Then she paused, glanced around, and grinned. No more bags were present.

Oliver’s hands were on his lap as he sat motionless next to me. He glanced at the vacant area before him, then at the phones held by his cousin, and finally at the table.

“Mom,” I uttered softly.

“Did you?” I began.

“Oliver should be grateful just to be here,” She stated, turning to face me with an unwavering smile.

She spoke loud enough for everyone at the table to hear.

“Not everyone needs things to be happy.” She said.

Laughter broke out around the group. Behind her hand, Emily laughed.

Ben shook his head and laughed as if his mother had said something amusing and sage. Luke grinned at his brand new phone.

I gave Oliver a peek. He had a crimson face.

He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were moist. He was eight years old and he was more composed than I was.

Leaving the Table

Everyone responded when mom called back from the kitchen.

“Who wants pie?” She asked.

Everyone went on as if nothing had occurred. It was as if my youngster had nothing, while his cousins were playing with $800 phones.

My chair scraped the floor as I slowly rose up.

“Oliver,” I whispered.

He looked up at me perplexed.

“Get your jacket.” I said.

“Michael, don’t be dramatic,” Emily remarked, without even raising her gaze from her new purse.

“We’re leaving.” I said.

I didn’t answer after making my way to the coat closet. I took Oliver’s jacket out.

He approached quietly and I zipped it up and assisted him in getting inside. Now there was silence in the room.

Everybody was observing. With her hands on her hips, mom stood at the kitchen doorway.

“You’re really going to leave over this?” She asked.

I looked her in the eyes.

“He’s fine, stop babying him.” She said.

I didn’t turn away first, for the first time in my life. I took Oliver’s hand and we went out the front door into the chilly December night.

“Merry Christmas, Mom.” I said.