“Surprise, Surprise!”

Date: 10/14/2025

“I have a surprise for you!” Mat announced, his grin practically bouncing off the walls. That tone — that overly bright, this-might-actually-be-good tone — instantly set alarm bells ringing. I’d always hated surprises. They’re emotional booby traps dressed up as gestures of love. You’re meant to react with joy, but my reflex is suspicion: What fresh chaos is this? “Close your eyes!” he said, practically vibrating with excitement. He took my hand, eyes twinkling, and guided me to the living room doorway. “Okay,” he said, hands hovering near my shoulders like he was steadying a prize contestant. “Now open them!” I cracked one eye open. Then the other. Nothing. Same sofa. Same cushions. Same faint whiff of nagchampa on the burn. “What do you think?” he asked, expectant, his eyes sparkling with pride. “Umm…” I stalled, trying to buy some time. My eyes darted anxiously for clues. A new lamp? No. New rug? No. Eventually I gave up. “I… don’t know what I’m looking at?” From across the room, came a sharp tsk. It was my mother-in-law, arms folded, burning daggers into my soul. “If looks could kill…” I thought, smiling nervously. Mat’s face fell. “Mandy, we worked so hard on this! Mum and I have been at it all day.” I blinked, took a step back, turned a full circle. “But… it’s the same.” It was. Identical. Every frame, every cushion in its usual place. My mother-in-law smirked like a cat that just ate the family parakeet. The room fell deadly silent. I sighed and went for the only socially acceptable exit. “It looks lovely. Thank you.” He brightened slightly — a flicker of hope — until the storm known as Sarah Beth blew through the doorway. My sister-in-law. An overly jovial buxom lady. Only her expression was anything but. “Where’s my thank you card?” she demanded. I stared. “Your… what now?” “I bought you that Christmas Easter egg. From Lidl. Limited edition!” Ah. That. My eyes — traitorous things — flicked towards the untouched egg in the corner, wrapped and shining in silent accusation. Sarah Beth followed my gaze, her jaw tightening. “Oh. I see how it is.” I retreated to the kitchen, tail between my legs. There was Maxi, my beanpole of a son, mid-crime. He froze, slamming down the lid of his lunchbox as though it was holding his secrets. His hair fell over his eyes as if to cloak his guilt. “Caught red-handed,” I said, prying open his lunchbox. He gave me a sheepish grin — the one that used to melt my heart before it evolved into his default defence strategy. I peered into the box and nearly gasped — an endless mountain of biscuits, chocolate, fizzy pop. Even a rogue Pop-Tart. “Jesus, Maxi, this could feed a nation.” I laughed. But as the wrappers spilled onto the kitchen floor like landfill, I felt a pang of something more sinister. Was it guilt? Shame? Regret? I’m slowly poisoning my kids, I thought. One packet at a time. A crisp packet crackled — and suddenly, we were on the sofa, night settled, TV humming. My comfort zone. I flicked to Married at First Sight. Mat groaned. “Married at First Shite,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. But then his interest snapped awake. Because there she was — my best friend, Ash — glammed up, radiant, announcing herself as one of the new brides. We almost levitated off the sofa. “WHAT?!” She was already married. To a man who wasn’t on this show. Onscreen, Ash was a vision of friendliness, cooing compliments at every contestant. “Oh, your hair looks gorgeous!” “You’re stunning!” Meanwhile, my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Texts. From Ash. Each one a venomous commentary: “She looks ancient.” “Did you see that fishnet swimsuit?.” “The producers said she was only 28. Ha!” “They’re all fake, Mand.” And then — cut to black — we’re no longer on the sofa. We’re on the show. On a sailboat, somewhere vast and blinding with sunlight. The ocean around us shimmering like blue foil. “How’s married life?” I asked, eager for her to spill the tea. Ash learned back, her blonde hair whipping in the wind. “Oh, that old buffoon? I pushed him off the boat ages ago.” Mat and I looked at each other — one of those looks that speaks subtitles: Did she just confess to murder? I crept over to the edge. The water rippled, and there he was — her “husband,” bobbing up in full scuba gear, waving sheepishly. Ash cackled. “Speak of the devil.” He tried to climb aboard, but she smacked my hand away when I reached out to help him. “Leave him. I want rid.” Rid. The word stuck like a splinter. Then the scene dissolves into the fold of the waves. I’m in Mum’s car. Her hands gripped to the wheel like she was trying to choke it. She’s shouting at other drivers, cheeks flushed. “Bloody idiots! No one can drive these days!” And it was as though Mother Universe was eavesdropping. Right on cue — CRASH. A jolt, the sound of something crumpling. “It wasn’t me,” she said immediately, in that tone that only mothers can manage — defensive and dismissive in one breath. Outside, a traffic cone lay flattened like a crime scene victim. I felt relief bloom— until I saw the dent. Massive. Like a crater. I swallowed. “Everything’s fine!” I said brightly, climbing back in back. The scene dissolved into the next. Home again. Full circle. The front garden was chaos —windblown rubbish, soggy paper, snack wrappers glistening like shame under the morning sun. Had Maxi’s lunchbox thrown up its contents out here? I froze. Someone was kneeling amidst it. Jennifer Garner. Of course. She was on her hands and knee, dirt smudging her jeans, sunlight haloing her hair as she carefully placed stones in neat, deliberate patterns. A rockery — small, elegant, meticulous. When she finally sat back, she wiped her brow and sighed. “I’m just gutted that my daughters don’t like dogs,” she said softly, more to the earth than to me. I didn't respond. She smiled sadly. “I would’ve loved a pet dog,”. Then she went back to her work —sorting chaos into order, one rock at a time. I stood there, watching. The scene felt suspended in time —the glint of the stones, hush of the wind through the rubbish, the faint hum of something mending itself. And then, all at once, the threads pulled together. The unchanged living room. The fake gratitude. The performative kindness. The junk food, the dented car, the lies that smooth over guilt. All of us pretending things are fine while standing knee-deep in our own mess. Rearranging the same furniture and calling it transformation. Maybe that's the real surprise. That the world doesn't shift because someone gifts you change —it shifts when you pick up the first stone yourself.