Am I Wrong for Testing My Mother-in-Law on Christmas?

I entered my MIL's immaculate mansion with two Christmas gifts and one mission: to reveal her true nature. Which will she treasure more, the luxury gift or the personal, sentimental one?

I met Richard on a Tuesday. I was balancing two coffees in one hand, phone in the other, trying to elbow my way into the elevator. He was already inside, grinning like he'd been watching the whole circus.

"Need help?" he asked, his voice warm, like a late spring breeze.

"Nope," I replied, juggling everything just to prove I could. Naturally, I spilled half a latte on my blouse.

"Impressive," he said, holding out a napkin like he'd been waiting for this moment all his life.

I snatched it from him, muttering, "Don't start."

Somewhere between spilled coffee and shared lunch breaks, he became my person. Within a year, we were standing at the edge of Lake Crescent, getting married.

The wind whipped through my curls, as we exchanged vows with no one but nature (and two fishermen) as our witness. No guests. No grand displays. Just us, vowing to face the world together.

The world, as it turns out, included his mother, Diane.

See, Richard comes from a wealthy family, but I scraped my way up from nothing on the wrong side of town. My job is great and I earn enough, but Richard and I have always maintained a strong relationship regardless of our different backgrounds.

We love each other, and that's enough for us. But Diane… well, her reaction when Richard called to tell her we got married says it all.

She completely dismissed our intimate ceremony, saying Richard deserved a luxury wedding people would talk about for years, not some "cheap elopement."

I hadn't met her yet, but already I had misgivings about enjoying a friendly relationship with her. However, I'm not the type of person who judges people based on preconceived notions.

So, when we decided to visit Diane on Christmas so I could meet her for the first time, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to uncover her true nature.

"Are you sure about this?" Richard asked me as I put the final coat of varnish on a small, hand-painted stone featuring his mother's cat, Mittens.

"Positive," I said, lips curving into a smile I didn't fully feel. "The stone is a simple gift, but it comes from the heart. This," I hovered over the Gucci website tab on my phone, where a bag was already in my cart, "is just expensive flash. This test will show me if we can accept each other for who we really are."

His gaze lingered on me, concern and pride flickering in his eyes. He knew. He always knew.

Soon, it was Christmas, and everything was set.

The snow was fresh, untouched except for the faint tire tracks that led up to Diane's estate. It sat on the hill like it knew it owned the world.

Richard squeezed my hand as we approached the front door. "You good?"

I tilted my head toward him. "Don't ask me that, Rich. You know I have to be."

He sighed but didn't press. We stepped inside.

Fresh flowers sat in white porcelain vases, perched on perfectly polished tabletops. Family portraits lined the hallway. It felt like walking through a museum where nothing was really yours to touch.

"Richard!" Diane's voice floated toward us before she appeared, arms wide. She hugged him tight, swaying a little as if he were still a boy.

When she pulled back, her eyes found me.

"Oh, Suzy," she said, her gaze traveling from my face to my shoes. "You're taller than I expected."

I bit down on the edge of my smile. "It's 'Sue,' not Suzy."

"Sue, Suzy, they're very similar. You have a… strong presence," she added, her lips stretching into a polite, thin smile. Her eyes lingered on me like she was waiting for me to shrink back. I didn't.

"Shall we?" she said, turning on her heel. We followed, and her home swallowed us whole.

The sitting room had two identical white sofas facing each other. Diane motioned for us to sit while she poured eggnog into crystal-cut glasses.

"So," she said, passing us our drinks, "I believe you two met at work before you impulsively eloped. What is it you do again, Sue? Secretarial work perhaps?"

"I'm VP of Marketing," I said, and I caught the faint twitch of her eyebrows.

"That's nice," she replied, like I'd said I worked at a local bakery.

After twenty minutes of shallow conversation, I leaned forward, letting my fingers linger on the small, wrapped box in my lap for a moment longer than necessary. My heart tapped a steady rhythm against my ribs, a drumbeat of anticipation and quiet resolve.

"I brought you something, Diane," I said, tilting my head just enough to meet her eyes.

Her brows lifted, faintly amused, faintly curious.

"For me?" she asked, her voice as light and crisp as a folded napkin.

I slid the box onto the table in front of her. The silver wrapping paper shimmered under the chandelier's glow, catching the light just so.

"Just a little something I thought you'd appreciate."

Diane's eyes flicked to me briefly. Her manicured fingers moved with precise care, untying the ribbon like she was defusing a bomb.

The paper came away in smooth, silent folds, and I had to resist the urge to glance at Richard. I knew he was watching.

My breath felt tight in my chest as if it had gotten tangled in my ribs. Just look at it, Diane. See it for what it is.

Her fingers closed around the stone, cradling it in her palm as she scrutinized it. Mittens' tiny face stared back at her, every whisker, every soft detail captured in those brushstrokes.

"Oh," she said, tilting it in the light. "This is… interesting. Cute."

"Sue painted it herself," Richard said, and I could hear the firmness in his voice. Not loud, but sharp enough to be felt.

Diane hummed. "That's lovely. It's such a pity I don't have a space suitable for something so… folksy. Perhaps it will look nice near Mittens's water fountain."

Her eyes cut toward me, cool and precise. My cheeks burned.

"Of course," I murmured, pressing the glass of eggnog to my lips. The nutmeg brushed my tongue, but it tasted dull against the bitterness curling in my chest.

I knew the gift wasn't spectacular, but to suggest placing something I'd spent so much time painting and perfecting near a glorified water bowl hit hard.

But the second part of the test still lay under the couch, nestled in its sleek gift bag. It was waiting. I was waiting.

"Your turn," Diane said, holding out a small package wrapped in wrinkled tissue paper. "This is for you."

"Thank you," I said, trying not to overthink it.

It was small. Maybe a bracelet or earrings. I peeled back the paper. A $20 movie theater gift card stared back at me. My fingers froze. I blinked once. Twice.

"Movies," Diane said brightly, lifting her glass of eggnog. "Everyone likes movies."

A hollow laugh escaped me, sharp as a slap. Richard stiffened beside me. His head tilted slightly toward me, his brow creased with quiet fury.

"Mom," he muttered, his voice low.

Diane's eyes widened. "What? It's practical."

I leaned forward slowly, pulling the second gift from under the couch. It was time.

Sleek, glossy, and unmistakable. I placed the Gucci bag on her lap, folding my hands neatly in my lap.

"Almost forgot," I said with a smile that felt delicious on my face. "Merry Christmas, Diane."

Her eyes widened, a greedy gleam lighting her gaze. Her fingers brushed the logo, her breath catching. Slowly, she pulled the bag free, inspecting the seams, the zipper, and even the tag.

Her nails dragged lightly over the stitching, slow and deliberate, like she was a jeweler assessing a counterfeit diamond.

Her lips pursed, eyes narrowing as she gave it one final tilt. Her gaze cut to Richard, not me. Never me.

"Well, well," she said, her tone light but sharp as broken glass. "Richard, you shouldn't have let her buy this for me. Probably with your money, too."

"No," Richard said, his voice louder than I'd ever heard it. Sharp. Final. It sliced through the air like a cleaver. "She bought it herself."

Diane's smile faltered like a photo frame tipping off balance. She blinked, fast and shallow, like she'd been caught mid-lie. "I didn't mean…"

"No, you did," he cut in, and this time his voice had weight. His eyes pinned hers in place, his jaw tight enough to crack.

"Sue is my wife, Mom, and I expect you to respect her. She carefully selected both those gifts for you… it's a shame you seem to care more for the expensive gift than you do for the one from the heart."

Silence. Not the quiet kind. The kind that hums in your ears. The kind that pulls every ounce of oxygen from the room.

Diane pressed her fingers into the Gucci bag's leather, her knuckles going white. Her eyes darted to Richard, then to me, her smile brittle as porcelain left too long in the sun.

"Of course, Richard," she said with a light laugh that didn't match her eyes. "I meant no offense."

"Of course," I echoed softly, my voice smooth as silk but sharp enough to cut.

My gaze flicked to the cat stone at the far end of the coffee table, as forgotten as last week's mail. But the Gucci bag? That, she clutched with both hands like it might disappear if she didn't hold it tight enough.

She might not have passed the test, but at least now I knew what really mattered to Diane.

Hold it tight, Diane. Hold it close. Every time you do, you'll think of me.

Here's another story: The day I buried Emily, all I had left were our photos and memories. But when something slipped from behind our engagement picture that night, my hands started shaking. What I discovered made me question if I'd ever really known my wife at all. Click here to keep reading.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.