The Family Jewels

     “I can’t believe we’re arguing over this. You know the law gave me the right to make this decision.” 

   “But, Mom. I can make my own decisions. It’s my life.”

   That’s how the conversation went between us for years. The day finally came when we could put the argument behind us.

   Just like every morning since my wedding day, I checked the safe for my family’s most prized possessions. After updating the camera and coordinating the app on my phone, I breathed a sigh of relief and patted myself on the back. Meticulously vigilant, I prided myself on taking supreme care of my husband’s stash of wealth before we added my son’s birthright to the safe. Then, for 25 years, I successfully managed both; monitoring my son’s inheritance and watching it grow and mature from almost nothing. Unexpected tears of pride stung my eyes as I grabbed my heart. You see, it was my son, Geordie’s, wedding day—the day I triumphantly transferred the responsibility and honor of his inheritance to his new wife.

   As I completed my morning surveillance check, my husband snuck up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. Kissing my neck, he told me how proud he was of me for protecting our treasures. I moaned agreement with him and let my thoughts wander while we snuggled. 

   See, other women, who weren’t as careful as me, lost their most beloved valuables. In fact, one of my dear friends made the mistake of keeping hers in a Tupperware container under her bed—the dog ate it. Needless to say, her husband divorced her and joined a monastery of Eunuchs. (Also, Tupperware stock plummeted, but that’s a different story.) Another friend had a house fire, but her husband’s legacy was insured for twice its value. They ended up with an enormous upgrade and she is now the happiest woman I’ve ever met. 

  And then there are those selfish women who refused to try. I never really understood them. Maybe they didn’t have a head for numbers, or perhaps they were too busy to make it a priority. Of course, I’m referring to the ones who never tried to protect it in the first place….the ones who just gave it back to the men. I read about their protests on Twitter—something about equality, bodily autonomy and reproductive rights; words that don’t apply to me, so I ignored them.   

   Don’t get me wrong, I have felt conflicted about my choices. It’s something we all had to face when leaving childhood behind: an ethical dilemma of sorts. Do we choose the path of liberal freedom or the path of conservatism? For me, it was all about my upbringing and moral integrity. I chose this path because of my personal, deep-rooted responsibility to future generations. 

   There were times, however, when I wondered whether or not I was doing the right thing. Especially during the raging hormonal days of Geordie’s teenage years. He begged me, many times, to hand over his inheritance. 

   “Come on, Mom! It’s my first date.”

   “No, Geordie. Get a job and show me you’re responsible enough to handle it. Then, we’ll talk.”

   I truly struggled over what to do when he graduated from high school, but I held my ground.

   “Mom, come on. I’m 18–a legal adult. I can drive a car and join the military…”

   “No, son. You’re not finished with college and you don’t have a job. You’re not even paying for your own health insurance.”

   “But Mom, all of my friends have theirs.”

   “If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?” 

   A lot of mothers I knew signed over their child’s inheritance when their kid went to college. I considered it, too. Part of me understood that access to his birthright might teach Geordie responsibility and give him a chance to understand himself on a deeper level. But, after mulling it over and weighing the pros and cons, I decided the stakes were just too high. I think he hated me for exerting so much control over his life, but I was only doing what what best for him. 

   My husband kissed me and put his hand up my dress, instantly jerking me out of my nostalgic reminiscing. When he tore off my panties and shoved his head under my petticoat, I forgot all about the conflict of the past and screamed my approval of his agile tongue. After 30 years of marriage, I had to admit—the sex was amazing. 

   “Somebody wants to make a withdrawal from the safe, huh?”

   “Well, our son is getting his today. I thought, maybe, we could…you know…I mean…”

   “As long as we make sure to put it back. We still have retirement to think about.” 

   Later, as I fixed my hair and makeup for the wedding, I thought about how I would present the endowment to Geordie. I considered leaving it in the safe we installed in the couple’s new home so they’d be surprised when they returned from their honeymoon. 

   “I suspect they will need it on their honeymoon, dear.” My husband spoke up for Geordie, admitting he wanted our son to enjoy himself. 

   “I suppose you’re right. But, what if they have a baby?” Certainly, someone needed to look out for our future grandchildren. 

   “That’s up to them now, dear. Aren’t you glad my mother relinquished control of my assets on our wedding day?” He pleaded with me to see reason.

   I blotted my lipstick and pulled up my Spanx. Sighing, I realized my husband was right. That’s when the idea dawned on me. 

   “Do we have any pickles?” I inquired of my husband, who usually handled the grocery shopping.

   “I think there’s a small jar in there.” He lifted an eyebrow and stared at me. He looked like James Bond in his tuxedo and if I hadn’t just fixed my makeup, I’d have jumped him again.

   “No. I need the big jar. You know why…” I pointed at our wedding picture and understanding lit his face. 

   We didn’t have much time before the ceremony, so we rushed to the nearest supermarket. Dressed to the nines in our formal wedding attire while holding a giant jar of pickles, we really stood out from the crowd. 

   “It’s good to see some people still honor tradition.” The cashier, an older lady with gray hair and a raspy, smoker’s hack, nodded her approval at our purchase.

   “Excuse me?” I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant.

   “That’s how they did it in the old days. You know…buried it in the backyard in a pickle jar.” She explained before giving us our total.

   Back at home, I emptied the pickles into a Tupperware container and fed one to our Golden Retriever, Mags. After fixing the jar up with a fancy ribbon and bow, I secured my son’s long-awaited entitlement.

   Turning to my husband on the way to the church, I had a sudden panicked thought.

   “Will he know how to use it? Should I have printed off instructions of something?”

   My husband grinned at me from behind the wheel of our Hummer. 

   “There are countless videos on YouTube, Dear. Besides, we didn’t have instructions and we did just fine.”

   After the beautiful, heart-warming ceremony, we proceeded to the reception where I chased a couple of Xanax with champagne and went over my notes for my speech. The emcee introduced them as the gorgeous couple entered the room. Finally, after cutting the cake and throwing the bouquet, they prepared to exit for their honeymoon. 

   “Dear, it’s cruel to make them wait any longer. Give it to her. She married him. It’s hers now.” My husband gave me a little encouraging shove toward the microphone. 

   “Excuse me. I have one last gift for our bride. Ophelia, would you please join me over here?” I held my new daughter-in-law’s hand while I spoke. Tears of joy rolled down both our cheeks. “On this day, I, Geordie’s mother, present to you, a gift. Just as my husband’s mother presented to me on our wedding day.” I paused and retrieved the pickle jar from the bag. Holding it high in the air for all to see, my voice shook with pride as I spoke. 

   Later that night, I said a prayer, thanking God for the evolutionary mutation that led to the creation of the detachable, screw-on penis; and for lawmakers who gave women control over them. After my prayers, I shared a pickle with my husband while we cuddled and watched TV. And we all lived happily ever after. 

THE END.