The Gift

My life consists of the same boring routine seven days a week, three hundred sixty-five days a year. Nothing changes, and honestly, that’s exactly how I like it. I’m not plagued by feeling obligated to attend family gatherings, work extracurricular activities, church functions, or political rallies. Other people may feel compelled by some odd need to socialize, but not me. I want to get up at the same time every morning, enjoy my Raisin Bran along with a glass of orange juice, watch the news and weather while I’m dressing, then leave for work. It’s simple, succinct, and I see no need to change it.

My evening routine is a wash, rinse, and repeat of my morning routine, except I’m eating supper and wearing more comfortable clothes. People stopped asking me to join them for drinks or a card game after work years ago because they eventually figured out that my answer would always be no. I guess the shrinks would say I have an antisocial disorder, but I prefer to call it living my life the way I want to. I’ve decided to share how I live my life so you might better understand why this package created such a dilemma for me.

At approximately 5:45 pm, I pulled into my driveway, grabbed my mail out of the mailbox, and proceeded to the front door. Everything looked normal until I spotted a box sitting on the stoop. This isn’t some ordinary box that some Amazon or UPS driver dropped off by mistake. The package is decked out in brightly colored wrapping paper and topped with a bright red bow. There is also a gift card attached to the bow with my name on it and the words, from Santa. Someone must be messing with me, but who?

I immediately scanned my surroundings, looking for the practical joker, but no one was in sight. A decision needed to be made. Either I could kick the box out of the doorway and onto the porch, or I could pick it up and bring it inside. Kicking it aside would be the least disruptive to my routine, but what if the package contained something valuable? Maybe it was a bomb. Okay, no reason to let my paranoia get the better of me.

Just as I was reaching for the box, a woman’s voice broke the silence.

“Excuse me, but I believe that box is for my son.”

“Unless your son and I share the same name, I believe you’re mistaken. The name on the card says Micah Brown, that’s me.”

“Oh, how strange. Mr. Brown, I’d like you to meet my son, Micah Brown.”

A young boy, approximately eight years old, stepped out from behind his mother and timidly extended his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Micah.”

“Hello, Micah, it’s nice to meet you. You’re the first person I’ve ever met who had the same name as me. It looks like Santa got us mixed up and gave me your gift.”

I handed the boy his present, then turned to his mother.

“I don’t recall seeing you in this neighborhood before. Are you new?”

“Yes, Micah and I moved into the house across the street last week. I’m Mira.”

Strange how one mistake can turn a person’s life around for the better. As time went on, I learned that Mira’s husband had died in a car crash. Micah thought it was cool to know someone with the same name and used to stop by to visit. I eventually taught him the game of chess. His mother and I started dating and eventually got married. The box may have been delivered to the wrong house, but the gift was received by the right person.