Last Christmas, my husband Murphy gave me a gift that left me furious.
We’d always agreed to only buy presents for our kids and parents,
but without warning, he changed the rules. Ten days before Christmas,
he presented me with a huge, carefully wrapped box and declared it was something special.
Our daughters, Mia and Emma, hinted that he’d been secretive and spent hours in
the garage preparing it. I spent the next ten days guessing, hopeful it was something
thoughtful like the quilt I’d admired or even a new TV to replace our broken one.
Murphy’s proud smile as he stared at the box made me think it was perfect.
But I couldn’t have been more wrong—and the aftermath left
me planning the ultimate revenge for an entire year
