I’ll never forget Christmas morning when I was seven years old. I woke up early, as any kid does on Christmas, and ran to the living room, half-expecting to see the mountain of presents you always see in movies. Instead, there was a small pile, smaller than I had hoped, but enough to get me excited. There was one, though, that wasn’t under the tree. It was sitting right outside the front door. It was a brand new, still-in-the-box, Gameboy. This was the must-have gift of the year, and I knew there was absolutely no way my parents could afford something like that. We weren’t exactly struggling, but things were tight. I remember my mom tearing up when she saw it, a mix of joy and something I couldn’t quite place at that age. My dad, ever the pragmatist, was more concerned. He brought it inside, examined it closely, and asked if anyone had seen who left it. Of course, no one had. It was a complete mystery. We asked all our relatives, all our neighbors, and family friends. No one claimed responsibility. My parents decided to let me keep it, figuring that whoever left it intended for me to have it. Over the years, the mystery of the Gameboy faded into the background of my childhood. It became just another thing I owned, a cherished possession, but the ‘how’ and ‘why’ got swept away by time. My dad always suspected it was a family friend, someone who knew we couldn’t afford it but wanted to give me a special Christmas.
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Life went on. I grew up, moved out, and started my own life. My parents got older, and eventually, last year, my dad passed away after a long battle with illness. It was a difficult time for all of us, especially my mom. In the weeks that followed, we spent a lot of time together, reminiscing about the past and trying to navigate our grief. One afternoon, while we were going through some old family photos, the Gameboy came up. I mentioned how much I loved it and how strange it was that we never found out who gave it to me. That’s when my mom dropped the bombshell.
She sat me down, took my hand, and with tears in her eyes, she told me the truth. It wasn’t a family friend. It wasn’t a mysterious benefactor. It was her. She had sold her engagement ring to buy me that Gameboy. The ring wasn’t particularly valuable, sentimentally or monetarily, but it was all she had. She knew how much I wanted one, and she wanted to make my Christmas special. She had kept this secret for over twenty years, afraid of what I would think.
I was speechless. A wave of emotions washed over me – shock, disbelief, gratitude, and overwhelming guilt. My mom sacrificed something so important to her, something that represented her love and commitment to my father, just to make me happy for one day. I felt terrible. I couldn’t believe she had carried that burden for so long. All those years, I had no idea the true cost of that Gameboy.
Now, I don’t know how to process this. How do you repay a gift like that? It’s not something you can put a price on. It’s not something you can just buy back. It was an act of pure, selfless love, and I feel like I don’t deserve it. I’ve been trying to be there for my mom, to support her through her grief and to show her how much I appreciate her. But it feels like it’s not enough. I can’t undo the past, and I can’t give her back her ring. All I can do is try to be the best son I can be and hope that one day, I can make her as happy as she made me that Christmas morning, all those years ago.
I am devastated. I now have a Gameboy that brings me more pain than joy. What should I do?
