The Gift That Wasn’t a Gift
Ever had one of those moments when you just knew you should’ve trusted your gut? That was me, standing in my stepmother’s basement, staring at what could only be described as the ugliest, most disgusting couch I’d ever seen.
Earlier that morning, my stepmother Susan had called with a cheerful voice, excitedly telling me that she had a “priceless” gift for me. The kind of gift that was so big she couldn’t move it on her own.
“You’re going to love it, Nicole!” she said. “It’s absolutely priceless! Come over later today and I’ll show it to you.”
Now, let me give you a little backstory. Susan and I didn’t exactly have a warm relationship. Honestly, she barely tolerated me. So when she called, offering me a gift, I had to wonder what kind of trick she was playing.
“Curiosity killed the cat, Nic,” I muttered to myself as I slid into the driver’s seat of my car.
Still, I couldn’t resist. I was intrigued. Maybe—just maybe—this time she wasn’t being sarcastic.
I pulled up to my dad’s house, expecting a normal visit. Dad greeted me warmly at the door, but Susan was nowhere to be found.
“She’s busy in the basement,” Dad said, handing me a cup of tea. “Finally cleaning out her clutter. It’s about time, to be honest. You can go down and see the gift in a minute.”
“I’m too curious, Dad,” I said, my excitement getting the better of me. “Let me just see it.”
Dad chuckled and walked away to find Susan. As I waited, I paced around, trying to shake off my nerves. Susan had a history of strange gifts. Last year, for my birthday, she gave me water bottles and mismatched socks. I braced myself for something equally odd.
Dad returned, followed by Susan, who was grinning from ear to ear, proudly leading the way. And then… I saw it.
It was awful. The couch was covered in stains and had tears all over. The smell—oh, the smell—was something beyond words. It hit me like a punch to the gut, thick and musty, as though the couch had been forgotten in some dark, damp corner for years. It looked like something you’d find in a junkyard.
“Happy Birthday!” Susan announced, her smile wide and smug as if she’d just handed me a luxury car.
My dad’s face lit up with hope, looking at me expectantly. “Well?” he asked, waiting for me to react.
I felt my stomach twist. There was no way I could tell them how disgusted I was without crushing my dad’s spirit. And Susan knew it. I could see it in her smug little grin. She was enjoying this.
I swallowed my frustration and gave a tight smile. “Thanks, Susan. It’s… something.”
I reached for my phone and called Derek, my boyfriend.
“I’ll be there in ten,” he said, sensing something was off. “What’s going on?”
“I need help getting this thing out of here,” I replied, my voice barely holding it together. “It’s a mess, but I’m taking it home.”
“I got you, babe,” Derek said. “I’ll bring the van.”
As I sipped my tea, I fumed inside. Susan was using me as a free moving service, but what could I do? I had to keep the peace with my dad.
When Derek showed up, we started hauling the couch out to the van. He made a face at the sight of it.
“This couch has seen better days,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Looks like it’s been through a storm and back.”
I glanced at him and sighed. “I thought I’d just dump it at the curb, but I’m not letting Susan get away with this.”
Derek raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I’m going to fix it,” I said, my mind already spinning with ideas. “I’ll make it into something amazing. Just wait.”
He shrugged, clearly skeptical, but didn’t argue.
After we loaded the couch, Derek followed me home. We had planned to have a quiet dinner together, but my mind was already racing about the project ahead.
“This thing smells like a swamp,” Derek said, laughing as we carried the couch into my living room.
“Yeah, but I’m going to make it work,” I said, determined. “It’s not going to stay like this.”
I started with the smell. It was unbearable, like a mixture of old mildew and something rotten. I found a DIY deodorizing solution online—a mix of white vinegar, water, and a few drops of lavender essential oil. I sprayed the concoction over the couch, hoping it would work.
The vinegar smell hit me hard at first, but as it dried, it took most of the nasty stench with it. I could already feel a sense of victory building inside me.
Next, I tackled the stains. The couch looked like it had been through a war. I whipped up a cleaning solution of baking soda, hydrogen peroxide, and dish soap. Armed with a soft brush, I scrubbed the fabric, working the mixture in and watching the stains slowly fade away.
“Look at that!” I said to myself, feeling a surge of hope. “This is going to work.”
But then came the rips and tears. A needle and thread wouldn’t cut it.
Derek, who was marinating chicken in the kitchen, turned to me. “Nic, you need fabric for this. There’s no other way than to do a funky patch job.”
I nodded. “I’m going to run to the store. I’ll be back in a few.”
“Why the rush?” Derek asked, clearly concerned.
“If I don’t get it done, it’ll sit here for months unfinished,” I said, already grabbing my keys.
“Alright,” Derek said, laughing. “Go ahead. I’ll keep the dinner going.”
At the thrift store, I found fabric that kind of matched the couch, along with some random buttons and frills. I even grabbed two throw cushions.
Back home, I set to work. Using fabric glue, I patched up the bigger holes and ironed on fabric to cover the smaller tears. To make the couch look more intentional, I added decorative buttons and tufting in key spots.
“That’s enough for today,” Derek said, sliding a flatbread onto a plate. “Get some rest. You’ve done enough.”
But I wasn’t done. The next morning, I was back at it, steaming every inch of the couch with my steam cleaner. It felt like hours of work, but slowly the couch began to transform.
By the time I was done, it looked like something out of a high-end furniture store.
I stood back and marveled at the transformation. “Damn, Nic. Well done.”
Feeling pretty proud, I decided to post the couch on a social media marketplace for $5,000. I didn’t expect anyone to buy it; I just wanted to see if I could make a profit off my hard work.
To my surprise, I got a message from someone named Maggie, saying she was interested. My heart raced as I read her message: “I’ll buy it right now!”
A few days later, she came over to inspect the couch. “It’s perfect for my art studio!” she said. “I don’t understand why you’d want to get rid of it. It’s beautiful!”
“Just redecorating,” I said, trying to hide my excitement. “It’s all yours to love and enjoy.”
But Susan wasn’t done. A few days later, she showed up at my door, furious.
“You ungrateful brat!” she screamed, her face red with anger. “How dare you sell my gift? That’s $5,000!”
I couldn’t believe her audacity. “Susan, you gave me junk. Junk. I put in the time and effort to fix it up. The only reason it’s worth anything now is because of my work.”
But Susan wasn’t having it.
“I want half the money!” she demanded. “That’s $2,500, and I’m not leaving without it.”
“Not happening,” I shot back. “If you wanted to sell it, you should’ve done it yourself. The transformation and profit are mine.”
“You’ll regret this!” she yelled, storming off.
I haven’t heard from her since, but I know my dad will be calling soon. What would you have done in my place?