What could be worth more than money?
I’ve been married to Tom for almost ten years now, and we have two little onesour weatherchasers. I work at the local nursery, he spends his days on the assembly line at the steel plant. Money is a perpetual problem; almost every paycheck disappears into mortgage and loan repayments, leaving us with barely enough for groceries.
Emily, what about your birthday? Shall we do something? Tom asked, trying to make my thirtieth feel special. We simply didnt have the cash for a proper celebration, a fact I was reluctant to hide.
What are we going to serve crackers and tap water? I replied, halfjoking.
Dont be so grim, Tom said. It doesnt have to be a lavish do. We could bake a cake, buy a few sweets, brew some tea, and invite Mum and a couple of close relatives. Your brother Mark is due back from London soon, isnt he?
Yes, Mark told me hell be in town at the end of the month, but Im not sure I want to ask him over.
Why not? Hes a businessman; maybe hell bring a gift. Even if not, at least the family will be together.
I wasnt sure. The constant strain of looking after the kids and the endless pennypinching had left me exhausted. After a moments thought, I decided to call the relatives and ask them to drop by for tea. I also rang my brother. Mark has lived in London for years, running a sizeable construction firm. Hes single, buried in work, and apparently has no time for family visits.
Marks fortunes had taken off almost as soon as he set up shop in the capital. Big contracts, hefty paychecks, and a newfound swagger turned him into a proud, sometimes pompous man who loved to tease us, calling us poor saps. His attitude grated on me, so I kept my contact with him to a minimum.
Will you be coming to my birthday? I asked, knowing Mum would never approve of Marks presence.
Of course! Mark replied, his voice bright. Where are you planning to celebrate?
At home, Tom. Just tea and conversation.
Ah, I see, he chuckled. I hadnt forgotten your tight budget. Ill think about it.
The day arrived, and almost everyone Id phoned turned up for tea. Mark, however, never made it. He had flown in from London but never knocked on our door.
Your brother expected a restaurant, not a kettle, Mum said, handing me a small wrapped box. He sent you a present, dear.
Whats this? I asked, puzzled.
Im not sure, Mum admitted, disappointment flickering across her face. He didnt tell me what it was.
When I tore open the package, I found an old, tarnished figurine.
What am I supposed to do with this trinket? I asked, feeling let down.
I dont know either, Mum sighed. Your brother thought youd appreciate the gesture. At least give him a thankyou call.
Since Mark hadnt shown up and had sent the odd gift through Mum, I felt no urge to speak with him. Later that evening, though, my phone rang.
I didnt come because I had more pressing matters than a cup of tea, Mark said, sounding annoyed.
If you didnt want to give a gift, you could have kept it, I retorted.
A trinket?! he laughed haughtily. You clearly dont understand value. Its an antique, worth a fair sum. A mate gave it to me, but it didnt fit my modern flat, so I thought you might use it.
What am I supposed to do with it? I asked, the irritation rising.
Put it on a dresser and let it remind you of the money youll never earn, he sneered. And dont even think about selling it! Photograph it each month and send me a report. I wont let you profit from my generosity.
His final words left me stunned. I knew Mark could be arrogant, but this was a new level. I never sent him any photos; Mum did, quietly snapping pictures for him to keep the peace.
Months later our situation grew worse. Tom lost his job, and the loan repayments loomed like dark clouds.
Dont worry, Ill find something soon, Tom tried to reassure me, though his tone wavered.
Soon well have nothing to eat, I muttered, eyeing the figurine. Maybe we should sell it. It looks valuable. It could tide us over until you get work.
But Mark said we couldnt.
Whats the alternative? Living on the streets? If we dont sell it, theres nowhere to put it anyway.
Tom didnt object. After all, it was my decision what to do with the gift. I contacted an antique dealer, handed the figurine over, and walked away with a respectable sum. We cleared the debts, and Tom soon secured a new job. Life breathed a little easier.
The relief was brief. A month later Mum stopped sending Mark pictures of the nowsold piece. She refused to tell him the truth, inventing excuses for the silence. Mark, not being the dullard he pretended to be, sensed something was off. He flew back to our town on business and demanded to see the figurine, apparently hoping to retrieve it.
Hows my gift doing? Still sitting pretty on your dresser? he asked, unannounced.
Um I was caught off guard and chose honesty. Your gift is now in the hands of an art lover.
What do you mean? he demanded.
I sold it, I said, swallowing. We were drowning in debt; we had no other choice.
You sold it for the debt?! I told you not to! his eyes flashed with fury. Who gave you the right to do that?
You gave me the right when you sent it through Mum, I shot back.
No! I said it should stay in the house! he shouted.
Enough of your nonsense! I snapped, my patience spent. Why would I keep a pricey bauble that sat on a shelf gathering dust? If we hadnt sold it, wed be homeless now. Do you understand that?
Its none of my business! he roared. Deal with your own finances.
Fine, weve dealt with them! I declared.
On my account?! he snarled. No one asked me to give you a useless present. If you ever blame me again, Ill throw you out!
Throw me out? he hissed. Ill leave myself! I never trusted you to keep a promise. Ill be gone from this house forever!
Those were the last words Mark uttered before storming out, his pride bruised. He had hoped to humiliate me, yet I turned his own cruelty against him.
When he finally left, a strange sense of relief washed over me. No longer would I have to glance nervously at an expensive trinket or dread his calls. Selling the antique untangled most of our financial knots, proving that peace of mind mattered far more than a relatives spite.
Mum was devastated to learn her children had fought. She loved both of us equally and tried to stay out of the quarrel, but the rift remained. In the end, Tom, Mark, and I each went our separate ways, each carrying on with our own lives.
