The Birthday Gift
The most valuable one I've ever received
My mother-in-law hates me.
That probably seems like hyperbole, but it isn’t. From the beginning, she never wanted me to be her daughter-in-law. She made it abundantly clear to me and everyone else that she had chosen someone else for her son. I came along and ruined her perfect plan.
There’s a romantic comedy to be mined from the story of our courtship, which could probably be set in Victorian England and star a young Laura Linney, but I won’t regale you with that now. I’ll just say: the now-almost-30-year relationship I’ve had with my mother-in-law has been the most difficult of my life.
It may come as a surprise, then, that she recently gave me the most valuable birthday gift I may have ever received.
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, she was not speaking to us. I rarely speak to her anyway, but my husband usually calls her once a week to check in. He and I had not spent Thanksgiving with her, in order to be present for our daughter’s last game as a college volleyball player — where an on-the-court celebration honored her along with the other graduating teammates. Parents accompanied their daughters; there were flowers, framed jerseys, and lots of tears.
This event was not a good enough reason, apparently, to forsake my mother-in-law for Thanksgiving.
[I’ll call her Evelyn. I’m tempted to use her real name, because she never reads anything I write, and because if hell freezes over and she does read this, using a pseudonym is pointless. But at least this way, no one will connect her to me, since we have different last names.]
As soon as Evelyn heard “we have other plans, but would you like to come for Christmas?” her communication with her only son bottomed out. She ignored texts, or replied monosyllabically. Phone conversations were curt and ended abruptly, and his continued invitations to her to join us for Christmas were rebuffed.
It’s sad that we’ve come to expect responses like this, and given the 30 years of interactions with her, you’d think we’d shrug it off, but it still rattled Pete as the weeks piled up.
Finally, in response to an email I sent her that ended with, “Hope you’re well and that you had a lovely Thanksgiving with friends. Will we see you in FL for Christmas? Much love, xox M,” she texted me almost immediately, in her signature military-telegram style:
“Am thinking about Christmas but there are numerous items to figure out. One is where and when I would stay”
“Need to move quickly re flights driver etc”
And the ice was broken.
She ignored our request that she stay with us for four nights, and in a hotel if she wanted to stay longer. “Anything less than a week just isn’t worth it, and I’m not going to stay by myself in a dark hotel room,” she said. Why the hotel room had to be dark — especially here in Florida — was puzzling, but we’ve learned that there’s no arguing.
We decided to accommodate her demand, in the interest of repairing what seemed like a broken relationship. We chose to say yes to her, knowing full well that we were caving. We wanted harmony, and we felt this was the best path to attain it.
We were not mistaken. Suddenly, all was sunshine. She returned texts and emails; she chatted excitedly about what to pack. All was forgotten, if not forgiven.
Christmas with her and two of our grown children, was harmonious. She parked herself on the couch, where she cross-stitched, perused The Wall Street Journal on her tablet, and read mysteries. She graciously paid for dinners out.
We all knew what to expect, and we accepted it as it came. When she diverted praise of others’ accomplishments to center on her own, we gently steered them back to the original recipient. When she railed about some hapless customer service representative, we fell silent, then changed the subject. When she told me for the 30th time how to load my dishwasher, I smiled and nodded.
I did what I always do in her presence: open and soften. I took up that mantra and practice 25 years ago and it has served me well. Open and soften, open and soften.
I also found ways to take care of myself. I took long walks, went to the gym, and did some Christmas shopping with one of the kids. When we all went to see A Wonderful Life (my favorite movie) at the restored Tampa Theatre, I distanced myself from her as the lights came up. My blubbering rag of a self needed to pull herself together before I could hear her criticisms of the picture.
One afternoon, we sat at the kitchen table and she showed me a black-and-white photo of her recently-deceased husband (Peter’s step-father), a successful corporate lawyer who rarely smiled and even more rarely exhibited any emotion at all.
As she spoke about him, a cloudburst of grief swept through her and I instinctively put my arms around her. She gripped the back of my neck like a drowning woman and sobbed, holding on for dear life in a clumsy half nelson. Then, just as suddenly, she released me, saying “thank you, oh thank you for being so nice. It’s just so hard.” I held her hand and agreed, it must be.
On Christmas Day, she opened the thoughtful gifts that everyone had gotten her and oohed and ahhed over them. We had nothing to open from her because a few days earlier she had handed us checks as we were getting ready to leave for a restaurant — very generous checks, awkwardly given but deeply appreciated.
The day after Christmas, everyone left. Before Pete took Evelyn to the airport, she thanked me for a wonderful Christmas. I hugged her goodbye, then closed the door behind her. With some extra effort, patience, and kindness, it had been a wonderful Christmas.
A few days later, Pete and I found ourselves in North Carolina on my birthday, stuck there due to illness. We clearly wouldn’t be spending it as planned, with my sister and her family, and two of our kids. I was philosophical about it; the universe apparently had other plans and my job was just to roll with it.
As we waited in our car outside a local diner, Pete called Evelyn. He told her that she was on speakerphone in the car, that he was sick, and that family members in Buffalo were sick, too. She asked a few covid-centric questions, and what we were planning to do.
“We’re not sure,” he replied. “We’ll probably find a hotel to stay in. It’s just a bummer because it’s Mary’s birthday today.”
She laughed as though he’d told her the funniest joke, then said, “I know. Well, some birthdays are better than others.”
There was a pause as Pete and I looked at each other, waiting. But she breezed on. I don’t remember what else she said, because I was stuck in unfulfilled expectation.
That was it? No “Happy Birthday”? Really? All sorts of feelings swooped in to join the disbelief, most of which were petty and small — I knew it at the time. But I couldn’t help myself. Really? grouched my tiny self, She couldn’t acknowledge my birthday in some kind way? After everything I did to make sure Christmas was a lovely time for her? Grouch, grouch, grouch.
The call ended, and I carried my petty resentment with me through half of breakfast, at which point I resolved to not think about it anymore. I wasn’t going to let her affect this day any more than she already had. Plus, Pete was going downhill fast.
He rallied enough to walk around the cute town of West Jefferson, but it was clear he needed to rest. We checked into a hotel, ate microwaved soup for dinner, and crashed.
In the morning, I went to the gym, aka a closet called the “Workout Center.” As I stretched, I listened to a short podcast, and then laughed out loud when I saw what YouTube’s algorithm had spooled up for me next: an After School talk by Wayne Dyer entitled, There Are NO Justified Resentments. Well that’s just perfect, I thought, and it was.
His talk centered on a fictional tale penned by Elizabeth Silance Ballard in 1974 and printed that year in HomeLife magazine. It’s called The Story of Teddy, and it’s a sweetly simple parable of empathy. I’ll summarize:
Years ago, an elementary teacher named Mrs. Thompson told her 5th grade class a lie: she said that she loved them all the same. But it wasn’t true. In the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy.
Teddy didn't play well with the other children, his clothes were messy, and he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson actually took delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big “F” at the top of his papers.
Mrs. Thompson’s school required her to review each child's past records, and she put Teddy's off until last. However, his file was a surprise.
Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners...he is a joy to be around.” His second grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is an excellent student, well-liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle.” His third grade teacher wrote, “His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken.” Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class.”
Mrs. Thompson felt ashamed. She felt even worse that all the Christmas presents her students brought her were wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's, which was clumsily wrapped in heavy, brown grocery-bag paper.
She opened it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume. Their laughter stopped, however, when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, put it on, and dabbed some of the perfume on her wrist.
Teddy stayed after school that day just long enough to say, “Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to.” After the children left, she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children.
Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children same, he became one of her favorites.
A year later, she found a note under her door from Teddy, telling her that she was the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Over the years, he sent her notes to let her know he had finished high school second in his class, or that he graduated from college with the highest of honors. Another letter was signed, Theodore F. Stollard, M.D. Each one always told her she was the best teacher he’d ever had.
The story doesn't end there. Another letter arrived that spring, in which Teddy said he was going to be married, and that his father had died a couple of years earlier. Would Mrs. Thompson sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom? Of course, she did. And she made sure to wear the bracelet with several rhinestones missing, and the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Teddy whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.”
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back, “Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you.”
I sat on the rubberized mat that the Holiday Inn Express had thoughtfully provided and let the tears pour down my face. My ruthless, rational mind was telling me knock it off! The story is obvious, saccharine, and simplistic! But my heart paid no attention. It was too busy spilling over.
I’ve known for a long time that Evelyn had a horrendous, damaging childhood: a violent household, a mother receiving shock therapy in and out of asylums. I’ve known she had to look out for herself and her two younger sisters, that there was no nurturing, no safety, no praise.
It dawned on me that in spite of all that, I’ve always expected her to treat me the way she was never treated, to give to me what she is incapable of giving — the love of a mother.
Yet… I already have that. My own mother loved me, and I love my children. Why would I carry resentment toward her for not giving me what I already possess? I have all I need, and more. And for god’s sake, I certainly don’t need her to wish me a happy birthday.
In that cramped Workout Center, I felt something release its hold on me, an unbinding of sorts. I knew I’d been set free from resentment. Or rather, I knew I had set myself free. Joy bubbled up and my heart effervesced. Would it last?
My answer came a few days after my Workout Center epiphany. (Could the creators of that space have imagined it would be used to “work out” resentment?)
Back home in Florida, Pete and I were discussing finances. Not the everyday did-you-pay-the-mortgage-type stuff, but the ooky, what-if-I-die stuff. I made a comment along the lines of, “I know you’ve always said that if something happened to you, your mother would take care of me,” and his face went unnaturally blank.
“What,” I said.
He hesitated. I could tell whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be pretty. He said, “I’ll just say it. My mother has decided that if something happens to me, all her money will go straight to our kids. Bypassing you.”
I’ve seen characters in movies or plays laugh and cry simultaneously, but as an actor I never played a part that required that. In fact, I wasn’t even sure if that was a real, authentic human response, or an overblown dramatic display.
I’m here to tell you, it’s real.
The irony of the situation was so abundant, so comical… yet I also felt as though I’d been kicked in the solar plexus. I just kept toggling between hilarity and anguish, with an occasional detour into the underlying stunned disbelief.
I finally settled into a bitter, angry place. Gone was joy and effervescence; returned was resentment, and lots of it. Tiny Me was taking over, and she was pissed. She stomped around for a good 24 hours, hurling invectives, until Bigger Me realized, yet again, the great truth that had descended upon me in the Workout Center: I have all I need. I amended it: I don’t need her love, her birthday wishes, or her money.
Joy was back.
I decided that 24 hours wasn’t too bad a turn-around. Years ago, it would have taken weeks to come back to effervescence. I’m shooting for 12 hours next time.
Ever since I read Mark Nepo’s The Book of Awakening, I’ve struggled with the story he tells of a prayerful man who, over and over, rescues a poisonous spider drowning in a river — and who, over and over, gets stung by the creature.
When the spider asks him why the man keeps lifting him out of the water, since stinging is just what a spider does, the man replies, “Because that is what I do.”
My struggle has not been with the necessity of staying true to one’s nature. I behold deep beauty in the idea that “human beings lift each other, no matter the consequence,” and I’ve strived for that ideal, even when I’m not always been able to embody it. Witness my relationship with Evelyn.
No, my struggle is that Nepo takes this concept to a place I cannot, as yet, follow. I’m with him when he says, “It is the reaching out that is more important than the sting,” but when he adds, “In truth, I’d rather be fooled than not believe,” I put on the brakes.
I should tell you that in his recounting of the story, Nepo casually mentions that the man does not die each time he’s stung, because “his prayers for the world diluted the poison.”
Hmm. When Nepo states he’d rather be fooled than not believe, is he saying that being seriously harmed as a result of credulity is preferable to not believing? Would he still say that even if it meant dying?
Throughout history, and especially since 2020, people have been fooled and paid a too-high price. I don’t think that’s a viable road for humanity. It’s certainly not the road I and many of my readers are choosing to take.
But perhaps Nepo is saying that a truly enlightened being cannot be harmed. Through prayer, all manner of harms are neutralized. I actually believe that’s possible. The power of sacred intention, laser-like and loving, is limitless.
But how many of us mere mortals can harness that power reliably? Not many. I’m game to keep trying. And the world forces squeezing us right now are doing their part to whip us into spiritual shape.
There’s one more interpretation, and it works alongside the previous one. Perhaps he’s saying that none of us can really be harmed because, as Pierre Teilhard de Chardin famously said, “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.”
Living from that perspective really does bring ultimate freedom. Evelyn’s stings haven’t harmed me at all, they’ve just given me opportunities to expand: to open and soften, to deepen my capacity for empathy, and to experience the joy of stepping into Bigger Me over and over and over.
And recently, she taught me that I have all I need.
Best birthday gift ever.
Profound. Beautiful. True. When you realize that you have everything you need and always will, you can be at peace with all beings.
Oh wow...this is wonderful. Out of the dark and dreary 'workout' room there comes light. This is a game changer. How can we expect back what we put into people when they have no basis for giving? No foundation? We need to be fine or exceptional just as we are, with all we have been given and giving it away opens up more room inside us to be better than we were yesterday or last week or last year. xoxxo