Open the box.

It was late in the afternoon on Christmas Day when I heard my doorbell ring. I wasn't expecting anyone . . . probably one of my neighbors stopping by to wish me a Merry Christmas. The last person I expected to see standing there was Michael. Just a couple of weeks earlier, I had ended the relationship for the last time.

"It's over," I'd told him coldly. "This relationship is going nowhere. I'm done."

There were tears . . . of relief for me, of sorrow for him.

I'd thought about Michael a couple of times during the day. Even when a relationship's bad, it's still a loss that requires grieving. Not the loss of the relationship with that specific person, per se, but the loss of the dream of a relationship into which I could settle for the rest of my life.

How many failed relationships had I had? It was too many to count. The fact was, I hadn't had any successful relationships.

I read once that to determine how a prospective partner would behave in a relationship one should uncover how his/her first significant relationship ended. If he was the one dumped, then he would spend the rest of his life nervous about being dumped and would sabotage relationships the remainder of his life. If he was the one who did the dumping, he would be a better partner because he had not been wounded.

I had been dumped in all of my significant relationships, including one marriage . . . and traded in for another woman.

This time the "other woman" was his mentally ill mother who crept into and about his apartment while we were in bed. The other "other woman" was his brain-injured ex-wife who was also a meth addict and earned her income as a stripper.

Being with Michael was the makings of an episode of Jerry Springer.

I'd been in and out of the relationship for over a year.

Towards the end Michael had agreed to pastoral counseling. We met with the pastor and I explained the grievances. In addition to the drama surrounding his mother and his ex-wife, there was his disturbed and violent 8-year-old son (who once attacked a babysitter, beating her violently with his fists, and who had recently had an outburst at school where he turned over his desk, picked up his chair, and threw it at his teacher), there was his genital warts, there was his depression and the myriad medications that kept him in a constant state of confusion and unable to work. Finally, Michael's smoking, that he had promised to quit but continued to smoke.

The pastor listened patiently to me. When I finished, he continued to look at me for several seconds (I could see a hint of stunned disbelief in his eyes) before he turned to Michael and spoke.

"Is what she's said true?"

"Yes," Michael replied.

"All of it?"

"Yes," Michael nodded his head at the pastor, then turned to look at me and smiled, then back to the pastor, "all of it."

"And what complaints do you have about her?"

"None, except that she hasn't been patient with me. I keep telling her I can't control my mom and my son and my ex-wife."

An incredulous look flashed across the pastor's face, and his eyes dropped to his hands, which were folded neatly, fingers entwined, on the desk in front of him.

He seemed to be praying.

After a pregnant silence he raised his head, looking first at me and then at Michael.

"Why," asked the pastor, "would a woman who has no drama in her life and everything else going for her be obligated to take on all of your problems?"

"Because she's my girlfriend!" Michael's voice had a feminine whine to it.

"No," said the pastor firmly. "No one should have to stay in a relationship that is so unbalanced. You have nothing but problems to bring to the table. She has the right to walk away from this relationship."

And, so I did.

When I opened the door that Christmas afternoon and saw Michael standing there with his son, Kyle, I was angry! But because of Kyle, I didn't show it. Instead I put on my warmest smile.

"Can we come in?" asked Michael.

I gave him a look that showed my displeasure.

"Sure," I said sweetly, and then bent down to give Kyle a hug.

Michael turned and said he'd be right back. As he headed down the stairs, my eyes followed him, and then I saw it. At the bottom of the stairs. On the landing. A huge box, wrapped in Christmas paper. What had he done?

Kyle was excited.

"We got you a gift!" he squealed with delight.

The box was at least three feet square. I had no idea what could be inside.

"Open it! Open it!" Kyle was jumping up and down, the fat on his morbidly obese body quivering like half-set jello.

I looked at Michael. "Open it," he said softly.

"C'mon, Kyle," I said, "help me get this paper off."

Kyle's fat little fingers went quickly to task. In just a few second's he'd gotten the paper off the box. Together we pulled open the lid. Inside were wads of newspaper. We dug our hands in and threw the papers around the room. Then I saw it. Another box, beautifully wrapped.

Three more times we repeated the ritual -- unwrap the box, dig around in wads of newspaper, find another box, a box smaller than the one we'd just opened.

I still had no idea what the Christmas present could be.

I held a small box now. I would unwrap it by myself; it was too small to share with Kyle.

"I know what's in the box," he chided. I helped my dad pick it out!

"This is the last box," Michael assured me.

Michael and Kyle held their breath as I opened the last box. It was the most beautifully wrapped of all the boxes. I opened it slowly, carefully, not wanting to tear the pretty paper . . . a habit instilled in me as a child by my grandmother, a habit I had not use for then, but understood perfectly now.

I opened the lid of the box. Instead of wads of newspaper, I found colorful tissue paper folded neatly. I pulled back the tissue paper. There, in a nest of carefully arranged tissue paper was a small, black velvet box with a bowed lid. I knew immediately what I would find in that box. I would find a ring.

Michael had talked about wanting to marry me, but I'd told him I never would. This is why I had insisted that we attend pastoral counseling. And hadn't the pastor told him he didn't deserve me?

I was furious! Not only because he had put me on the spot like this, but because he had involved Kyle in the plan. All I could think of was Kyle.

For Kyle's sake, I pretended to be excited. I pulled out the velvet box and feigned a look of astonishment.

"What's this?"

"Open it."

"I helped daddy pick it out!"

Carefully I opened the lid. There, against a black satin backdrop, ensconced in a cushioned, velveteen, slot was a single, tiffany-set diamond.

I couldn't have been more disappointed. Not in the ring! The ring was beautiful! But in Michael.

Kyle ran up to me. "Do you like it?"

"Yes, sweetie, I do."

Now Michael was on his knee in front of me. He took my right hand in his, looked into my eyes and Kyle looked on.

"Will you marry me?" he asked.

"Michael . . ." My voice trailed off. Kyle grabbed the box, and took out the ring.

"Put it on, Mindy," he said as he handed me the ring.

I put on the ring. It sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight flooding in from the window behind me. I held out my right hand and moved it around so the diamond would catch the light. I don't know who was happier to see it on my finger, Michael or Kyle.

I decided to accept Michael's proposal, not because I intended to marry him, but because I didn't want to spoil Kyle's excitement. He was only eight years old! He didn't deserve to be used like by his father.

I hugged Kyle, gave his father a quick, annoyed kiss.

"C'mon," said Michael. "Let's clean up this mess and then go get some Chinese food. I'm pretty sure Orange Blossom is open."

I wore the ring until after the new year. Then, one night, when Kyle was with his mother, I gave it back to Michael and ended the relationship once and for all. I never saw Michael or Kyle again.