One Christmas Day, we had my mother-in-law over for lunch. She had been divorced twice. She taught French. Perhaps as an occupational hazard, she couldn't resist correcting people, quoting authors, or criticizing anything she didn't understand. She fancied herself a great intellectual.
After the traditional chocolate Yule log, it was time to exchange presents. Ray and I had bought her the latest novel by one of her favorite authors. A bookseller had wrapped it carefully in beautiful red paper decorated with silver stars.
My mother-in-law handed each of us a gift.
Ray opened his first. Inside was a pair of blue cotton pajamas by Le Slip Français. We avoided looking at each other. He thanked her politely.
Mine contained about a dozen kitchen towels. They were colorful, patterned with flowers, birds, and sea creatures. I genuinely loved them. I thanked her warmly, telling her the gift couldn't have come at a better time because I had been meaning to buy new kitchen towels.
My mother-in-law's face froze in surprise. A few seconds passed. At last, her lips tightening with irritation, she murmured,
"That was just a joke! That's not your real present!"
She placed a second package in front of me. It was smaller, wrapped in rather ugly gift paper, with layers of tape piled over one end. With a gesture, she urged me to open it.
Once again, I told her how pleased I was with the towels and that they would have been more than enough. Without blinking, she motioned for me to open the package.
Beneath the cheap wrapping paper, I found a plain white cardboard box with no markings. The flap was torn. Inside was a bottle of Yves Rocher perfume called Comme une Évidence. It was only three-quarters full.
Ray shot me an incredulous look. I couldn't think of anything to say except,
"Did you notice the box was torn?"
My mother-in-law answered immediately.
"Oh, that's not the original box. I bought it at the market. The man just gave me whatever he had!"
Silence settled over the room. She had bought the perfume from one of those market bins filled with old bottles—display testers and sample bottles.
I looked at my mother-in-law for a long moment before finally thanking her. Then I smiled at her. Mostly because Ray had never worn pajamas.
aboutthe th auhtor
Lilia Mahfouz is a French author based in Paris. A laureate of the Society of Dramatic Authors and Composers Writing Prize, her fiction has appeared in French literary journals, as well as in a wide range of American and British literary magazines.
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