Greatest Gift of All

AUTHOR'S NOTE

In line with the Christmas spirit of love and forgiveness, here is my attempt at a Reconciliation story. I must admit I struggled with it and it's not even very long! The reason I found it difficult is because I'm a firm believer in consequences for actions. That there should be a price to pay for wrongdoing.

I think one of the reasons we're seeing a rise in the statistics for both men and women regarding infidelity is because there are no legal consequences anymore. Hell, most of the time there aren't financial or social ones either. It isn't the taboo it once was. It doesn't carry the same shame factor it did once upon a time.

Call me old-fashioned, if you like, but if someone I know admits to me he or she has had, or, is having an affair, I drop him/her from my circle of friends. Harsh? Maybe, but if he/she can lie to, break promises, stab in the back, and betray the trust of someone he/she is meant to love above all others how much easier will it be for him/her to do use or deceive me, a mere friend?

Okay... enough moralising.

To avoid confusion between Sam's letter and Lisa's internal thoughts I've used bold italics for the letter and regular italics for Lisa's thoughts.

As per my previous stories, I've done my own editing which probably means there's little mistakes I've missed because I'm too familiar with my own words. My best friend, lover, and partner, Vandemonium1, has proofread so if any mistakes remain, it's his fault... hahaha, just kidding, my love, I take full responsibility. We both know I'm an Olympic Gold Medalist contender when it comes to tweaking!

Thanks, and happy reading.

******

I SMILED AT my daughter-in-law, Sara, accepting the mimosa cocktail she held out to me.

"Thanks, sweetie."

I took a sip, enjoying the naughtiness of drinking the mix of champagne and orange juice at ten in the morning. Hopefully, none of the grandkids would ask me to share.

At the sound of a giggle to my left from one of the said grandkids, I turned my head, my smile broadening. Maddy, my granddaughter, who was four, and Mia, who was three, were taking turns to twirl in their new tutus. Maddy's was lilac with a wide satin ribbon at the waist, her cousin Mia's almost identical in pink. I admired the workmanship and attention to detail, each sequin on the bodice having been sewn on by hand. Toni, my other daughter-in-law, was certainly very good with her hands and it was so sweet of her to make one for Mia as well as her own daughter. She'd even gone so far as to decorate their ballet slippers and make wands. No wonder the girls thought they were fairy princesses.

As I watched, my six-year old grandson, Christopher, raced between his sister and cousin clutching his Captain America shield. Hot on his heels was my other grandson, Matthew, wearing an Ironman suit but brandishing a Thor hammer. I chuckled; clearly, he had no problems being two superheroes at once. They tore around the room like whirlwinds—even the baubles on the Christmas tree tinkled at the slipstream they created—before exiting out the back door which Matthew's father, my son Shane, held open for them. I shook my head fondly. It only seemed like yesterday that Sam, my husband, was doing the same for our boys. They, too, had been tearaways, full of energy and mischief.

I looked around my living room, feeling a deep well of contentment. I loved Christmas when the family was all together; my two sons with their wives and children, my daughter, this year heavily pregnant with her first child, and her hubby, Tom.

Sam and I had had our reservations about Tom to begin with; him being ten years older than Melinda and rather reserved, but we were glad to be proven wrong. He adored Melinda and encouraged her to continue her studies in archaeology, even knowing what a difficult career that could be when combined with a family. And he made Melinda happy. Very happy. What more could we ask for?

"Hey, Mum. Dad said to give you these," said my eldest son, Richard. He held a card and gift box out to me.

"Oh, I thought we'd opened all our gifts," I replied.

Richard smiled and shrugged. "What can I say? I'm only the messenger."

I returned his smile, thinking how, with each passing year, his resemblance to his father grew, and accepted them both. As good manners dictated, I opened the card first.

Open your gift first, then read the enclosed letter. I suggest you do so in private.

I smiled, gazing in every direction, looking for Sam to give him a wink to show I appreciated the mystery, and, if what I suspected was true, the sexy nature of his gift. I couldn't find him. Rather than seek him out, I gave in to my curiosity and headed for the study, so I could open my mystery gift in private.

With the door closed behind me, the sounds of my family celebrating receded. I sank into the leather lounge beside Sam's bookcase. It was so comfortable it was sinful and opened the gift box. I was wrong; it wasn't sexy. It was bling. It contained a pendant. I didn't know what to make of the design at first. Instinct told me it was more than a random series of swirls of silver, gold, and rose gold, subtly studded with diamonds. Closer study revealed intertwined words.

How ingenious; Greatest Gift Of All.

I was in awe of the cleverness of the artist, at the way they'd hidden the words in a pendant no bigger in diameter than two inches. It was a statement piece. One you'd wear up high, framed by the V-neck of a blouse, or low on a heavy chain over a polo-neck jumper. I loved it. It was different and unique. Trust Sam to find something so unusual.

As instructed, I then removed from the card the sheets of fine writing paper. I could see they were dense with words. I smiled in anticipation of reading his love letter, mentally thanking the gods that this man still loved me so much after all these years.

Dear Lisa,

I'm trusting you deciphered the words hidden in the design. If you haven't, go look again. You need to know them before you continue reading this letter.

Have you figured it out?

They say, "Greatest Gift Of All", and that is what I'm offering you. This Christmas; that is my gift to you.

What, you may ask, is the 'Greatest Gift Of All'?

It's forgiveness.

I'm offering you forgiveness. And a second chance.

Contact your lover today. Text him that its over. That you can't go through with it. That you've changed your mind. That you never want to see or hear from him again.

The letter fluttered from my fingers to my lap as I gasped. Where? Where had all the air in the room gone?

I clutched my chest. It pounded so. Was I having a heart attack? Sadly, part of me wished I was. If I died then I wouldn't have to face Sam. I wouldn't have to see the condemnation in his eyes. I wouldn't have to witness his pain or his disappointment in me. I wouldn't have to face my sons or my daughter, and see my vain weakness reflected back at me.

Sam knew. Oh god, my beloved Sam knew. My heart ached for the agony he must be feeling. I had inflicted that pain. Reality hit me with truth after truth. I bit my lip to stop from crying out. How awful the guilt, how soul destroying the knowledge, when you know you're the one at fault, you're the one responsible. You're the baddie.

I had nothing, no one to blame. Only myself. Only my weak, vain, selfish self.

With trembling hands, I picked the letter from my lap. I knew I wouldn't like the rest of Sam's missive, but Sam deserved my attention. He deserved to be heard.

I won't go into details about why I suspected, what I did with those suspicions, and what I found out. Suffice to say, I know his name is Peter Piper. I know enough to know you plan to sleep with him in the New Year. And more than enough to know you've already made a mockery of our thirty-five years together.

Before you read any further; stop and think. This is what you've reduced me to. I have to write a letter in order to be heard.

My eyes smarted, awash with shame. Sam, my dear, sweet Sam. Only I could read the true depth of pain in those few short words. To no one else on this planet had he ever revealed his innermost self, his vulnerabilities. Only to me, unworthy me.

And I had betrayed that trust.

I felt low. Lower than a gnat's belly. My throat constricted, strangled by guilt.

What can I say, Lisa? One moment I had a beautiful and loving wife, a way too big, but nice home, and a wonderful family who I was proud of. Business was great. Kids were great. Grandkids even better.

And then I woke up one bright and sunny morning to find it was all a mirage.

My world collapsed beneath me. I felt as if I'd fallen into a nightmare I couldn't wake from.

You know what I realised in the middle of it all? Emotions aren't static. You can't compartmentalise them. Not really. Not forever. They're not solid like bricks or stones. You can't have a stone of pain, a stone of devastation, and a stone of anger, and stack them in the corner of some room and close the door on them. They're more like water. They flow. They rise and they ebb, they come in waves, and the mind isn't a vessel that can contain them like a cup or bowl. They seep and infiltrate and leak into new areas. It was like my whole being was a house and your betrayal turned on a tap in my brain. That adulterous water filled my mind, contaminating my every waking thought, but then it overflowed until it was soaking my heart, my gut, my limbs, every nook and cranny, every stairwell and room of my home. And it hasn't stopped and with each passing day the rot is setting in. The foundation has been weakened. Soon there will be no foundation left to destroy.

You were my foundation, Lisa. And now I find you don't have my back. It isn't you and me against the world and you're not so loving and loyal after all, and without that belief the rest of my life is as ashes in my mouth. Everything I've spent the last thirty-five years working for doesn't seem to matter anymore. All the compromises, all the sacrifices, each and every one of them was pointless. They didn't achieve anything. It was all for nothing.

Sam's words shook me to my core. What had I done? What had I caused? Sam; strong, decisive, honourable Sam. Sam, my rock. A wonderful father and provider. Sam with his corny jokes and terrible cooking. Sam, who loved his family with a fierce protectiveness. Sam, who now thought his life was worthless.

And it was my fault. Remorse wasn't a big enough word to describe the depth of my anguish. I'd been foolish. Silly and vain, lapping up the attentions of a younger man. And for what? I wasn't unhappy. I wasn't bored. I wasn't dissatisfied with either Sam or my life. Quite the opposite.

It shamed me to admit, I'd done it for nothing more than the warm glow it gave my ego. For the buzz of feeling young and desirable again. What did that say about me? I may well have destroyed the man I loved for no more than a stroke to my vanity.

Water dripped onto Sam's neatly written page. I looked it at in surprise. I raised my hand to my face to find my cheeks wet. I hadn't realised I was crying.

Perhaps, I shouldn't say this now, perhaps I should save it until the final paragraphs, but I can't. I have to tell you. If you don't end your affair today, I'm not going to fight you for the money, the house, or any other material crap. None of that matters.

I'm not going to fight this man for your heart either.

I'm not going to try to woo you or plead. I'm not going to go all romantic and try and sweep you off your feet all over again. I'm not going to point out all the pros of choosing your marriage over your affair. And I'm most certainly not going to beg. I shouldn't have to. That fight is one I should have been able to consider won the day you accepted my marriage proposal.

And anyway, how can I compete? He's younger. He's new; a mystery for you to unravel. A new and delicious flavour for you to try. How can I, the old and boring known, the old and boring vanilla, hope to compete?

Compete? Oh, Sam, you don't have to compete. I'm yours, I've always been yours. I just lost my way for a bit. Oh, sweetheart, please forgive me. I've been a foolish old woman.

Seeing my actions through Sam's eyes rammed home the true nature of my actions. They weren't pretty. When? When had I become so susceptible to flattery? So needy? When had I lost my focus? My moral centre? The questions nagged at me. I pushed them to the back of my mind. I'd have to answer them eventually, but reading Sam's letter, and truly listening to his words, was, at that moment, more important.

With what you've done you've delivered such a blow to my heart, I'm not sure it will ever fully recover. I had no idea such pain existed, and it doesn't stop. It goes on and on with no end in sight. Night after night for the last month I've watched you sleeping, silently screaming at you. Asking you why you didn't tell me you were dissatisfied? Why you never gave me a chance to fulfil this need, this hole that you turned to him to fill? Why my love and devotion wasn't enough?

Do you have any idea what it was like to eat dinner with you, watch T.V. with you, read the paper with you, and wonder what I'd done to deserve a wife who was perpetually distracted? Perpetually wistful and lost in thought. Even when you were with me, you weren't with me. It was like there was some fantastic concert or party going on next door and, but for me, you would be there, the life the party.

I gasped, winded. Pain. So much pain. I'd inflicted so much pain. Oh, Sam. You were always enough. Even as I thought the words, I wondered if they were false. If Sam had been enough, why had I sought attention elsewhere? No, that was wrong. Sam had been enough. The lack was in me. I was the one afraid of aging and no longer being desirable. The bottomless pit of need was in me.

I can't adequately describe, I just don't have the skill with words, the hollow loneliness I've felt each and every time I've held you these last four weeks knowing that you're seeking his attention, his praise, his endearments, his touch, his kisses. Each 'I love you' that you uttered to me didn't bring a warm glow to my heart like it should have, like it used to. Instead, it felt like another stab wound. Your words, your affection, all poisoned by your secrets and lies.

I guess its true what the experts say; you can never truly know what's inside another person's heart. I thought I knew yours. I thought I knew you. But I was wrong. It seems I don't know you at all because the Lisa I knew and loved was incapable of deceit and betrayal. Oh, I know you haven't slept with him yet, but I also know you've done things no loving and faithful wife would. And, worst of all, I know you planned to take that final step in the near future.

Knowing his words were true gutted me. I felt Sam's pain as if it were my own. With each sentence, I experienced another stab wound. I didn't try to avoid them—I deserved each and every one. The tears continued to flow, I didn't try to stem them.

As little as a week ago you came home from a night out with your friends—yes, I know that was just one more of your lies and that it was him you were with. It was late. I pretended to be asleep. You gave me a little shake and tapped my shoulder. I think you were trying to wake me so we could have sex. That made me furious. I thought I was going to explode. That you'd come to me seeking my embrace after having spent the evening with him. I wanted to roll over and strangle you. Instead, I continued to pretend I was asleep. After a couple of minutes, you gave up and snuggled into my back, even draped your arm over me.

That wasn't the worst thing, though. You sighed. After thirty-five years I know all the nuances of your sighs and this one was a contented one. It reminded me of that cat we used to have when the kids were little—Sebastian—he'd sigh like that too just after he'd stretched and clawed my armchair to shreds. You were the same as that damn cat. You clawed my broken and bleeding heart and then sighed happily about doing it.

I flinched, remembering in vivid detail that night. I had come home feeling all sexy. How awful to know Sam knew. God, how used he must have felt. It now seemed gross to have worked up my sexual appetite by flirting and lapping up compliments while out to dinner with Peter, expecting to have it sated at home with Sam. That was like using Sam as little more than a flesh and blood dildo. A cat. Sam was right, I'd acted like a cat. An alley cat.

I placed the letter gently on my lap and cupped my face; I wanted to hide. I didn't like the person I was seeing through Sam's letter. That woman wasn't a good person. She was thoughtless and carelessly cruel. She was vain and selfish. What had happened to me? How had I strayed so far from the person I used to be? The woman who had raised three children to be honest and have integrity? Where had my integrity been this past month or so?

I raised my face, forcing myself to suck in a few deep breaths like I did when I jogged and it was beginning to hurt and I needed that bit extra oxygen in order to push through the pain. It took a few repeats to brace myself for the remainder of Sam's letter.

I've loved you for so long; practically my whole adult life. Feelings like that don't just end. You can't just turn them off like switching off the lights. But, at the same time, I have new feelings for you, and they're not nice. They're angry and resentful. They're frustrated and vengeful. They're even hateful. Right now, as much as I love you, I also despise you in equal measure. My heart, my gut, feels like they're a blender with all the old and new feelings swirling around together. What will come out the other end? I don't know. I honestly, don't know.

Part of me hopes you will choose your lover because the road to any semblance of happiness will be a difficult one, one strewn with hardships, and I resent having to work at improving a situation I had no hand in destroying.

This last month has been the worst of my life. I admit when I confirmed my fears, I didn't know what to do. I felt paralysed, incapable of action. I never thought I'd be in this situation. I had no rough game plan to put into play. My knee jerk reaction was to turf you out. But then I thought about the kids and grandkids. People, I might add, also hurt by your betrayal, even if they don't know it yet. What we do affects them. Like a pebble thrown into a pond, there are ripples. Nothing we do, no decision we make is in isolation; there are always consequences and effects. I don't think I would be writing you this letter if not for them.

But enough, I offer you this one chance. It's him or me.

I must be honest; even if you end it today, I can't guarantee we will survive, but if our marriage, if you and I are to have any chance at all, you have to let him go. You have to choose me, choose us. And you have to do it today.