The Birthday Gift

I regretted my decision on the same day. It was David’s birthday and got him a motorcycle.

I had my reservations, but my husband cajoled me into gifting him the cycle.

After all, David had been asking for a long time. Perhaps he had matured enough by now. Perhaps he could handle himself. Turns out I was wrong. He was much too reckless.

He’s had it for just three days, and he had already crashed into a wall twice. He likes racing with his friends in the neighbourhood, and the poor handlebar was scarred beyond repair.

Mrs. Longstem next door had seen David with his motorcycle and had invited me to tea yesterday just to warn me. He was rash and snapped at anyone who touched his cycle. He had become too possessive, she complained. It was unhealthy, she continued as I tried to pretend the cat litter scattered around her living room didn’t bother me.

I hated that woman. And David! How could he be so irresponsible? If he continued this way, someone might end up hurt.

Just as I sat thinking about him, a biscuit in my hand and tea in front of me, David walked into the living room, his fists clenched, his knuckles white.

He stopped in front of me, “We had a fight. Bill took my motorcycle.”

My four year old looked into my eyes, tears in his.

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