Christmas Gift Bags

He was walking somewhere with his little son, feeling in a bad mood. In one hand, he held his son’s small hand; in the other, a bag with some things.

Sleet was falling. It was cold. Water was seeping into his boots. From a rusty awning, an icy drop fell on his neck and slid down his back.

The wind howled between the buildings, carrying with it the distant, muffled sounds of traffic and, now and then, the faint jingle of bells from some nearby shop. His son’s cheeks were red from the cold, and the boy skipped along beside him, chattering quietly to a toy car he clutched in his pocket.

Christmas and New Year were approaching. He despised all that atmosphere: the endless supermarket queues, idiotic television shows, and fireworks that always terrified his dog.

Every window they passed was decorated with plastic garlands and cheap blinking lights. Posters for seasonal sales were plastered on every shop door. Even the trash cans wore red ribbons, as if all the city’s ugliness could be covered up by a little glitter. The scent of roasted chestnuts lingered in the air, but to him, it only made the cold seem sharper, the day more bleak.

He glanced at his son, who was humming a tune under his breath, oblivious to all his father’s worries. For a moment, a pang of guilt flickered in him. Was he ruining Christmas for the boy with his bad mood?

Lost in such thoughts, he then noticed an old woman approaching them, leaning on a cane. She looked him straight in the eyes.

“Oh, no, she must be a beggar,” he thought, frowning even more.

The old woman, with her cane and headscarf, came closer. The father and son kept walking, stepping around puddles and mud, but the old woman joined them and started talking.

“Hey, do you know that…”

He wondered what kind of story she was going to tell him, instead of just nicely asking for money, which he might have even given her. Would she tell him about her five sick grandchildren? Husband that recently passed away?

Or that she needed urgent liver surgery and show him all the medical documentation? Or would she ask where the railway station was, and which bus she should catch, only to ask for money to buy a ticket afterward—a ticket she didn’t actually need, since she had no intention of traveling?

He remembered how, last winter, a man had stopped him at this very corner with a similar story—an uncle dying in another city, a desperate need for train fare. He’d given him some money, only to spot the man an hour later, laughing with friends outside a bakery, no tickets in sight.

Tired of hearing all the impossible and unbearable stories, he decided to take the initiative.

“Who are you? Have we met before?” he asked grouchily the old woman.

“Do you know that the municipality is giving out free Christmas gift bags for children?” she said instead of answering.

He was surprised. He knew about the free Christmas gift bags, but had always thought they were meant for the very poorest.

The old woman’s suggestion made him feel insulted—as if she believed he couldn’t provide for his own child. He bristled at the idea that she assumed he would take something simply because it was free, regardless of need. Did she really think everyone was like her, grabbing whatever was offered?

“Listen, I know, but we’re not really interested…”

The old woman was persistent and kept walking with them.

“Wait, let me show you,” she said, pulling a wet and crumpled flyer from her old bag, with information about the Christmas gift bags and a picture of the municipal president at the back side.

“No need, thank you.”

He was disgusted at the sight of the municipal president’s picture.

“How do you mean you don’t need it?!” the old woman was surprised. She frowned, becoming annoyed.

She thought it was normal to inform a passerby with a child about free Christmas gift bags for kids. She expected gratitude, but received, she thought, an unreasonable refusal. She wondered if maybe he hadn’t understood her.

“Free gift bags for children! You just have to go to the municipality and sign up,” the old woman insisted.

He’d had enough.

“To go register at the municipality to get something free even though I don’t need it. Maybe I wouldn’t even go if I did need it. Besides, I hate the municipality. I hate the corrupt municipal president, who couldn’t care less about this unbearable old woman waving his flyer. This old woman, above all, would never believe the municipal president is corrupt. In fact, even if she figured it out, she wouldn’t care. All that matters to her is to take something, even from a corrupt politician, just because it’s free. This old woman would be grateful to the municipal president. Maybe she’d even stab him in the back, but the only thing she’d care about is grabbing the free gift bag first,” he thought.

What really bothered him was that the old woman thought he and she were the same.

What really bothered the old woman was that he thought he and she weren’t the same.

The street seemed colder, the sleet heavier. He glanced down at his son, who looked up at him, confused by the tension. The boy squeezed his father’s hand a little tighter, seeking comfort.

A bus rumbled by, spraying dirty water up onto the curb. The old woman’s cane slipped slightly, but she caught herself. The father noticed, for just a moment, how frail she looked beneath her bravado—how her hands shook, how her coat was patched at the elbows. He felt a strange mix of irritation and pity, not sure which was stronger.

“Goodbye,” he said aggressively to the old woman.

“Drop dead, may God grant it,” the old woman replied.

He walked on, feeling the sting of her words, but also a strange, lingering guilt, like the cold water in his boots.