Monday Notes: The Gift
My brother-in-law, his wife, and I are estranged. We haven’t spoken since 2018, when I happened to be attending a conference in Houston, two-and-a-half hours from their home. My husband decided to rent a car and drive there. I rode along and spent a couple of days with them. That’s the last time I saw or spoke to them.
There have always been few words between us, because, in 1999, when I had the opportunity to establish a relationship with my new sister-in-law, I chose bitterness and hatred. I reciprocated the undercurrent of behavior that I was offered when I married my husband. My brother-in-law didn’t like me. His parents knew it. His aunts knew it. And eventually, I knew it. He told anyone who would listen that I wasn’t the right person for his big brother. In his mind, we shouldn’t have even dated, let alone married.
Thus, there has always been nothing more than familial cordiality on his part and disappointment on mine.
We hadn’t spoken in five years, because in 2015, I’d surmised, once and for all, that he and his wife didn’t like me very much because when my father died, neither of them personally reached out with condolences. Instead, one provided a “sorry for your loss” on social media. The other offered silence, two responses I found inappropriate for the death of one’s parent.
So, when I saw a box in the mail addressed to K. Garland, return sender: brother-in-law’s name, I was leery. My heart raced and the pit of my belly sank.
It sat on the dining room table for days. I stared and wondered, what’s in this box: cyanide or ricin?
Maybe it’s not for me, I hoped.
“Can you reach out to your brother and ask if the K. is for me or our eldest?” I asked. “I mean, you can’t just address something to K. Garland when two K. Garlands are in this family.”
“It’s for you,” he said a few text messages later.
So, they are trying to poison me. The ridiculous ricin thought slowly dissipated, and I opened the box.
Inside, was a black travel mug, adorned with a sunflower and a pithy 21st century quote about being your strong self and such. You know. Girl power and all that. On the other side, was my name: Kathy.
Hmmmph, I thought. This is nice. But why did they send it? This is a nice gift, but it’s weird, considering we don’t speak.
“I’m throwing this away,” I announced to my husband, who seemed mildly annoyed. “Can you find out why they sent this to me?”
More text-messages. “They started making things during the pandemic. Sounds like they had some materials leftover. They made you one.”
“Well, that’s a dumb-ass reason to send one to me. We don’t even talk. We haven’t talked since we were in Texas. They don’t even like me. I’m still throwing this away.”
“Why? Just because you don’t like the reason they sent it?”
“It’s the energy,” I justified. “I don’t like the energy around it. They had some leftover pandemic stuff sitting around and made me one…and sent it…without a note explaining why or anything, even though we haven’t spoken in five years?”
I’ve already reached my self-imposed word limit, so I’ll spare you the remaining over analysis of the mystery mug.
Eventually, I decided none of the details mattered. It didn’t matter how they determined I should be the recipient, or if it was intentional, or if it was an ‘olive branch,’ (another rationale that surfaced). All that mattered was my reaction. Was I going to add to the landfill by throwing away a perfectly good travel mug or was I going to use it because, well, I do travel a lot, and I love monogrammed things?
I decided to do the latter.
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