The Best Gift

I’ve never felt comfortable receiving gifts. When I get one, I go into a tizzy and question my worthiness to receive the gift. Then I wonder about the sincerity of the giver, and if the gift was just an inconvenient duty to cross off their list. The worst gifts come unwrapped and without warning, like a surprise party, or an uninvited houseguest. You have no time to prepare or think, leaving you disarmed and bare. I received a gift like that once, after a day of wallowing in a mire of self-doubt. That day I learned a novel thing about gifts. But before I tell you about it, I must first introduce you to the gift.

Gus was a chubby kid with bushy black hair and soft dimples. I sat cross-legged on the floor next to him in a church classroom filled with fifth-grade boys, where I volunteered to help. He was a bright kid, well-behaved, respectful, and knew all the answers. A kid any parent would be proud to call their own.    

 After class, I made sure his dad knew what a great kid he had and bragged about Gus as if he were my own. No surprise that this man would have such a son. Every Sunday, he and his five boys sat in the front row of church, behaving better than most adults. I learned later that he had adopted all five of them.

For weeks, I sat behind them watching this perfect brood and it made me jealous. My own son was homeless and a drug addict, and I was on my second bad marriage. I wanted to meet their mother and learn her secret to parenting, but never got the opportunity before I moved out of state.

Plenty can happen in two years. Nothing like divorce, foreclosure, and bankruptcy to force a woman of fifty-two to move back home. My parents were supportive and concerned about my growing depression over the turn my life took. Sunday came, and I looked forward to attending church again with my parents.

“Hey Babe,” my dad said, as we ate Sunday breakfast. “Do you remember Buck, the man who sits up front with his boys?”  

How could I forget?

“He’s going through the same thing you are,” dad said. “His wife left him last year.”

I covered my mouth as if chewing a bite too large to hide my emerging smile.

“You should talk to him,” he said.

I did better. I changed into a nicer dress.

On our first date, Buck took me to breakfast. Our conversation outlasted the pancakes, so we went back to his house where he introduced me to the boys. I won’t deny I was excited to see their home, but even more excited to see Gus again. 

 As we drove the five-mile dirt road to the house on 40 acres, I imagined a meticulous home, with boys playing basketball, riding horses, or any activities of well-behaved boys. But imagination is a funny thing. It can fill your mind with what you want to see, only to disappoint you when reality shows up. I can’t say I felt disappointed when we arrived at the house, just surprised at its wear. But when I walked inside, I had no words.

 It wasn’t the old, worn furniture or clutter that shocked me, nor the air of dust mixed with the subtle scent of fried food. After all, this was a house of teenage boys. As we walked each room, it became clear, the boys had escaped into a world of social media and video games, isolating themselves from reality. Even Gus ignored us when his dad spoke. What could you expect? Their mom had abandoned them, taking all the good things in the house and leaving what she no longer wanted—including the boys. Buck himself was treading water in a sea of trauma, thinking only of his boys as he allowed them the temporary escape of reality, until the numbness wore off.

Imagination had played a trick on me, but it also helped me picture what could be. Despite the disappointment, I believed love and time could restore the home and family.

I moved into the house the day we got married and felt instant resentment from the boys. It wasn’t personal. Twice in their lives, the boys had experienced rejection by a woman they called mom. Once by their birth mom and again by their adopted mom, and they had no reason to think I would be different. Then one day, the oldest boy had his wisdom teeth removed. I made him comfortable on the sofa and gave him his medication. As I covered him with a blanket, he looked at me and said, “So, this is what a mother does.”

My husband was perfect in every way but this. He believed the only way the boys could heal was to live without conflict. Don’t redecorate the house. Let the boys have their phones at night, and unlimited use of video games. Don’t give them chores or push them too hard, and trust that they are good kids. When I made a chore chart and complained when no one followed it, Buck solved the problem by throwing it out.

I walked on egg shells for the first two years, not wanting to upset or confirm their sad image of a mother. Saying it was easy would be a lie. Living in clutter as a perfectionist tested my limits, and I began counting the days until our nest would be empty, and I could live again.

It was no surprise when we caught the boys sneaking out at night to joy ride in our car without a license and party with friends. All except Gus. He didn’t run with his older brothers. Band and ROTC were his after-school activities. Gus’s exceptional character blinded his dad to the struggle building in the boy with whom we had such confidence. 

I noticed the change not long after the ninth grade when Gus isolated in his room more and became moody, far more than usual. His dad was not concerned since Gus got straight A’s and didn’t sneak out at night. He didn’t have time for such nonsense. He had escaped into the world of gaming, staying up at night playing into the morning hours. After learning of this, I hoped Buck would see his son’s pain and support my effort for more discipline. I was wrong.  

Buck dismissed Gus’s excessive gaming as normal for a boy his age, especially since it didn’t affect his grades, but he did agree to turn off the internet at bedtime. That’s when the attitude started. Because of Gus’s notable intellect, he developed a profound use of words, and took pride in his wrangling ability to reduce a person to tears. He kept his wit locked and loaded, ready to fire upon anyone so foolish to engage him. His dad never saw it because he never engaged. I saw it and ducked.  

I found myself in a game of tag with Gus. I would tag him with a request, then run before he pulled the trigger. We both knew the game we played, but never spoke of it. I was now in stepparent hell.

By his senior year, all his brothers had moved out and Gus’s attitude got worse. I stayed out of his way as best I could, but the rising frustration graded on my heart. I began to look inward for relief and realized that my battle with Gus was not all his fault. After much soul searching, something I had long denied surfaced. My battle to love someone difficult gave me a second chance at motherhood. “I don’t want Gus to turn out like my son,” I said to my husband.

But there was more. Gus was my last hope to prove to myself that I could be a good mother.

The more I tried, the worse my relationship got with both Gus and my husband. I didn’t like the petty person I had become, so I stopped. It’s a wonder I had any tongue left after all the biting I did to stop it from nagging. I stopped trying to control the situation and learned to let go by focusing on Gus’s strength. The house became calmer, but my tumult continued. I ignored it and bit harder.

Just before graduation, Gus enlisted in the Army. My husband assured me that bootcamp would remove all arrogance and turn our boy into a man. I needed to believe him, because after training, Gus was returning home.

 While away, I had his bedroom remodeled. He would return a man, and he needed a place that suited one. The Army did, in fact, turn Gus into a man. Only now we had a stronger, more confident wrangler. And as he entered adulthood, he learned its consequences, especially with love relationships. 

One day, through tears, he confided in me that he was suffering and didn’t know how to fix it. I listened as he opened up to me…not his dad. Me. He dropped all pride, and through a vulnerable act of trust, revealed his pain. My heart filled with compassion for the one who had given me so much grief, and in that moment, I remembered the little bushy haired boy with soft dimples I had met before life beat him up.

I can’t say what happened after that confession, as the shock filled my head with fog. But the day before Gus deployed overseas, he and I stood face to face in the kitchen, alone. And for the first time, he was at a loss for words and struggled to get out what he needed to say.

“Mom, I know I’ve put you through hell, and I’m sorry.”  

I felt vindicated at first, then realized what he was doing. He understood the gravity of deployment and needed to make things right between us—just in case. Our first genuine hug happened that day, and I wished I could erase every petty thing I ever said.

While deployed, I emailed Gus often and sent him Girl Scout cookies that I found on the internet since the cookies were out of season, along with anything else he wanted. And when he returned, I met him at the airport and welcomed him with a heavy hug.

Soon after his return, we had our first tiff. I’m sure I complained about a dish he forgot to put away or a light he left on. Something stupid. He asked me where his dad was, then went to speak to him. I knew he was going to complain about me to his dad, and I expected my husband to appear any moment to voice his concern. I conjured up excuses when he appeared.

“Guess what Gus told me,” he said, then released a delayed smile. “He wants to ask you to adopt him.”

A million pin pricks raced over my body, stripping me of all my worth.

“Why?” I said, then paused at my glib response. Why would Gus want a petty, pushy, perfectionist for a mom?

“Because he knows you’re the real deal,” Buck said. “He sees what I see.”

I didn’t know you could adopt an adult, but through tears I searched Google.

As we stood before the judge, Gus answered why he wanted me to adopt him.

“She pushed me to be better,” he said, “and never left when things got tough. When I was deployed, she was the only one who wrote and sent me cookies.”

 Strangers in the gallery laughed when he mentioned the cookies, and when the judge consented, they clapped. I’d like to say I became a better mom. But all that mattered that day was I became Gus’s mom, in spite of my failures, and learned that the best gift is the one you don’t deserve.