Free The 13th Gift by Joanne Huist Smith

and motions for me to take a seat.
    “Your throne, madam.”
    I roll my eyes with a smile as the butler act continues.
    He props a pillow behind my head and then kneels before me like Prince Charming, only there are no glass slippers, just my snow boots, which he removes. A mug of tepid hot chocolate sits on the coffee table with chunks of cocoa powder floating on the surface. Next to the cup is a toasted Pop Tart, which Bella is eyeing, on my favorite holiday platter.
    The dish, which Rick purchased for me several Christmases ago,only comes out of the cupboard on holidays. The triangle-shaped platter with a Christmas tree etched on it was not expensive. It’s not even all that pretty, but it is special to me. Many a festive dinner was served on this platter—my traditional roasted turkey, ham smothered in maple syrup, and pork loin with sauerkraut. The gift of the platter had been Rick’s validation that, while I might not be a master chef, I could put together a cheery and tasty meal for our friends and family
.
    Nick massages my temples.
    “Sit back. Relax. Enjoy,” he says.
    My son’s attentiveness heightens my tension, instead of relieving it. When the voice of Kenny Loggins singing “Danger Zone” starts playing on the stereo, I know it’s literally time to face the music.
    “What’s up?”
    Nick laughs, stops the massage, and helps himself to a generous bite of my Pop Tart. He hands me the envelope I saw him carrying this morning.
    “I made a Christmas list.”
    Inside the envelope is a four-page opus that my son has divided into categories and alphabetized. The video games, music, and bike I expect to see aren’t even listed.
    “You want two gallons of wall paint for Christmas?”
    “I
want
to move my bedroom,” he says. “There’s lots of space in the basement next to Ben’s. It just needs a little sprucing up.”
    My gut reaction: no way this is happening. But I take a deep breath and decide to hear him out.
    “Where’d this idea come from?”
    “The gifts.”
    I renew my commitment to identify the gift givers so that Ican delegate to them the task of cleaning out the basement and painting the room.
    “I told Megan I wouldn’t help her get out the Christmas decorations,” he says. “But with all the gifts and everything, I started wanting to do it. When I turned on the basement light, I knew it was perfect for me.”
    I’m not sure how to answer him yet, and decide to stall by looking through his Christmas list again. I start on page one. The sheet contains paint and related supplies, brushes, rollers, drop cloths. Nick also provides intel on the approximate cost and the cheapest place to buy each of the items.
    I have seen a list like this before, not this exact one, but similar. Rick presented one to me before he started building shelves in the family room closet last December. I had begged him to delay the project until after the holidays, but as usual he used his charm to convince me otherwise. I’m not going to be such a softy with Nick
.
    The second page suggests new furnishings.
    “I don’t want to sleep on a waterbed anymore. It wasn’t good for Dad. It’s not good for me.”
    The next page has softer supplies: sheets, a bedspread. The final page holds “vital but Christmas-optional items” that Nick acknowledges may have to wait until his birthday in April or beyond, due to the cost.
    “A computer and a television?” I say, amazed at his boldness. “How about I throw in a hot tub and mini fridge.”
    Nick doesn’t find my comments funny.
    “I’m almost a teenager,” he says. “I can’t function in that tiny room anymore.”
    Nick does have the smallest bedroom in the house, the one weused as a nursery, when we moved to Bellbrook in 1983, just before Ben celebrated his first birthday. Back then we used the basement as an exercise room housing my stationary bike, Rick’s inversion boots, and some free weights. The room was poorly lit, had concrete walls lined with