She came out in her pajamas, hair disheveled, and her face red with anger. She was yelling at no one in particular, shaking something in her hand. I pulled on my robe and calmly stepped outside, pretending to be surprised.
— Is everything okay, Linda?
She turned to me, trembling. She was holding a cardboard box… or rather, what was left of it. Thin smoke was rising from it, and tears mixed with foam of rage were streaming down her cheeks.
— You put something in this package! It exploded! Look what you did to me!
I smiled calmly.
— Exploded? Oh, yes… that package was for Dad. It had some glitter spray cans in it. I forgot to mention that if they get agitated, they can burst… But of course, it was labeled with my name. You know, for me.
Linda looked at me as if I were Satan incarnate. She had red and green glitter on her face and chest, stuck to her milk-white robe, and golden ribbons were hanging from her hair. She looked more like the living decoration of a crazy Christmas tree than a woman on the verge of collapse.
— This is revenge! I’m suing you!
I crossed my arms and replied:
— For what? For stealing something that didn’t belong to you and getting your share of Christmas? Linda, if you want, we can go to the police together. Let’s explain how my packages “accidentally” ended up at your place, opened.
She was taken aback. She fell silent for a moment, then yelled again and slammed the door of her house.
I stood at the threshold of my house, looking at the gray winter sky. Snow had started to fall gently. It smelled like Christmas, like sweet bread and cinnamon.
In a few hours, all the neighbors were talking about the incident. One of the older neighbors, Mrs. Stanca, brought me a tray of braided sweet bread.
— My dear, you had courage. This has been happening in the neighborhood for years. No one had the courage to stand up to Linda. But you… you taught her a lesson like in winter tales.
I thanked her and accepted the sweet bread. That night, for the first time, Christmas truly felt like Christmas in my house. Mom finally received a special, handmade ornament painted by me. It wasn’t a limited edition, but it was full of soul.
And Linda?
The next day, I saw her washing her driveway with a hose, trying to get rid of the glitter that seemed to have entered the very soul of her house. Since then, she hasn’t touched any of my packages. In fact, now and then, she discreetly leaves a note in my mailbox: “Sorry. Linda.”
Sometimes, the best lessons come with a little glitter and a dose of Romanian patience.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or for how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
