On my birthday, my daughter handed me an envelope with excitement.
“Mom, you have to open this! You’ll love it!” she urged eagerly.
I smiled politely. “You know I’m not a fan of money gifts. They always feel so impersonal.”
“It’s not money,” she insisted. “You’ll see — it’s something special.”
Curious, I opened the envelope and found a voucher for a ten-day stay at a health resort in the Carpathians, complete with massages, thermal springs, and specialized diet meals.
“Wow,” I said, looking up at them in surprise. “How did you come up with this idea?”
My son-in-law, with a puzzled look, asked, “Natalya Vasilievna, do you not like our gift?”
I hesitated, searching for the right words. On one hand, it was thoughtful — a chance to relax and be cared for. But on the other, was this gift meant for me? A vibrant woman who loves traveling and an active lifestyle?
“I appreciate the thought, truly,” I began carefully, “but a health resort? Isn’t that more for older folks?”
“My dear, it’s more than that,” my daughter said. “Mountains, fresh air, beautiful nature. We found a place with cozy rooms and plenty of activities!”
“Activities?” I replied, unable to hide my sarcasm. “Like dancing with retirees? You know I’m not into those places. I don’t want to spend my days surrounded by people decades older than me.”
“But mom, this is about rest and rejuvenation — a unique experience,” my son-in-law added.
I shook my head, hurt creeping in. Why do they see me as an old lady? I’m not ready to spend my days among seniors, even in the Carpathians.
“I’d rather travel somewhere lively,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “Egypt, Italy… somewhere bright and full of life, like me.”
Trying to ease the tension, my son-in-law said, “We just wanted you to relax a bit, mom. We thought this would be good for you.”
“Good for whom?” I snapped. “Maybe for someone in their seventies who enjoys warm mineral pools. But not for me!”
I felt my energy drain, tears welling up. Without a word, they thanked me for dinner and left. No apologies. I sat alone, clutching that envelope — feeling more hurt than I expected.
How could my own daughter see me this way?