My Husband Gifted Me a Christmas Present That Outraged Me – Next Year, I Plotted a Revenge

Some gifts warm the heart. My husband’s Christmas present? It ignited a fire of rage. I spent the next year plotting the perfect revenge, and when he unwrapped his gift, the look on his face was my real Christmas present.

Have you ever received a gift that made your stomach drop and your blood boil at the same time? I’m not talking about an ugly sweater or a fruit cake nobody wants. I mean the kind of present that makes you question if the person who gave it to you knows you at all. Or worse, if they even care. What my husband Murphy did one Christmas had me planning revenge for an entire year.

Money was always tight in our household.

Murphy worked at the metal fabrication plant downtown, pulling double shifts that left his hands calloused and his back aching. He’d come home smelling of metal shavings and machine oil, proud of providing for our family but too tired to notice anything else.

Meanwhile, I cobbled together an income tutoring kids in math and watching the neighbors’ children, which wasn’t much but helped keep food on the table and the lights on. Between mortgage payments and growing teenagers, we pinched every penny until it screamed.

We had a mutual agreement about Christmas: we’d scrape together enough for presents for our girls and our parents, but nothing for each other. It worked for 16 years of our marriage until Murphy decided to change the rules without warning me first.

“Susan! Come here, I got something for you!” Murphy’s voice boomed through our small house one evening, ten days before Christmas.

The excitement in his voice made me drop the math worksheet I was grading for little Tommy, who still couldn’t quite grasp long division.

I wiped my hands on my apron and walked into the living room.

There he stood, grinning like a kid who’d just found the cookie jar, with a massive box wrapped in sparkly paper that must have cost at least $5 a roll.

“What’s this about?” I asked, my heart racing.

The box was huge, nearly reaching my waist, and wrapped with unusual care for a man who typically considered tape and newspaper to be good enough for any package.

“It’s your Christmas present! I know we don’t do this usually, but I wanted to do something special this year. Something big!”

“Murphy, we can’t afford—”

“Just wait till Christmas Eve, Sus! You’re gonna love it! I promise you’ve never gotten anything like this before.”

I had no idea how right he was.

Our daughters, Mia and Emma, peeked around the corner with their art supplies, giggling like they used to when they were little, not the teenagers they’d become.

“Dad’s been so secretive about it,” Mia whispered. “He wouldn’t even let us help wrap it!”

“He spent forever in the garage getting it ready, Mom!” Emma added, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

That should have been my first warning sign.

For the next ten days, that box sat under our Christmas tree, taunting me. Every time I walked past it, I’d try to guess what could be inside.

Maybe Murphy had saved up all year for something special. Maybe he’d noticed me eyeing that velvety quilt in the store window, or remembered me mentioning how much I missed having a nice television set since ours broke last spring.

Sometimes I’d catch him staring at the box with this proud little smile, like he’d solved all the world’s problems with whatever was inside.

Christmas Eve arrived with a flurry of activity. Our girls were sprawled on the floor by the tree, while Murphy’s parents settled onto our worn couch that had seen better days.

His mother, Eleanor, kept shooting me knowing looks, while his father, Frank, nursed his usual cup of coffee with a splash of whiskey.

The room smelled of cinnamon and pine, thanks to the three cookie-scented candles I’d splurged on at the dollar store. Christmas carols played softly on our old radio. And outside, the neighbors’ lighting display cast multicolored shadows through our windows as I set a tray of brownies on the table.

“Open it, Mom!” Emma squealed. “It’s the biggest present under the tree! Even bigger than the one Dad got for Grandma!”

Murphy nodded encouragingly, his work boots tapping against the carpet in an excited rhythm. “Go ahead, Sus. Show everyone what Santa brought you.”

My fingers trembled as I unwrapped the paper, trying to savor the moment. The girls leaned forward, and I lifted the lid.

“A vacuum cleaner?” I whispered, staring at the box with its cheerful product photos showing all its “amazing features.”

“Top of the line!” Murphy beamed. “I already tested it in the garage… works like a dream! Gets all the metal shavings right up! Even does the corners!”

The girls exchanged glances before bursting into giggles. Eleanor pressed her lips together so hard they nearly disappeared, while Frank suddenly became very interested in the contents of his coffee mug, probably wishing he’d added more whiskey.

“Oh, and when you’re done with it in here,” Murphy added, still grinning like he’d just given me the crown jewels, “make sure to put it back in the garage. That’s where it’ll live most of the time. The suction on this baby is perfect for my workspace! No more metal dust anywhere!”

I fled to our bedroom, but Murphy followed, his heavy footsteps echoing behind me like thunder. I burst into tears as soon as he closed the door, the sound of Christmas carols mocking me from downstairs.

“A vacuum cleaner? Seriously? Your first Christmas gift to me in 16 years is a VACUUM CLEANER?”

“What’s wrong with that? It’s practical. Do you know how much these things cost? It’s top of the line!”

“Practical? You bought yourself a garage vacuum and wrapped it up as my Christmas present! You might as well have gift-wrapped 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.

Here’s another story: My husband set poison traps to kill the raccoons that raided our backyard trash. What they dug out of the trashcan one night left me frozen and in tears.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.