Birthday gifts are basically a marketing scam, Paula. Money straight down the drain. Trinkets, clutter, spa gift cards, all of it.
Just a racket to squeeze money out of people. I’m not participating in that circus. Paula froze at the sink.
A stream of warm water hit the center of an upside-down mug. Droplets splashed everywhere, settling on the sleeves of her old button-up house shirt. Her birthday was exactly two weeks away.
She turned off the faucet. Slowly dried her hands on a dish towel. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen, and from the kid’s room came the soft murmur of six-year-old Sammy, busy building something with his blocks.
— So there won’t be a gift, Mike? — she asked, folding the towel into a neat square. — I thought I was being perfectly clear. Mike swallowed a bite of roast and washed it down with cherry juice straight from the carton.
— We need to rise above all this consumer nonsense. We’ve got a budget. We need to think about building savings.
We’re putting money away for my new truck. No hard feelings. You said yourself it’s time to replace the old beater.
He cut another slice of meat, shoved it into his mouth, and dropped his eyes back to his phone, making it clear the discussion was over. The family’s self-appointed chief financial officer had issued his ruling, and there would be no appeal. — No hard feelings, — Paula repeated.
Adults. Savings. Got it. Loud and clear…
