The Christmas Sweater by Glenn Beck Read Free Book Online Page A

be explaining her gift.
    “Really, it’s great. Really. I did need a sweater.” I couldn’t get past my own disappointment
     or look beyond myself to see what the gift meant to her.
    I thought back to the note Mom had left for me under her bed. She was right, I had
     “missed” my gift. Mom had been making it right in front of me every night while forcing
     me to watch Little House on the Prairie. (She thought PaIngalls was cute, and I had to suffer for it.) But now it all made sense: a stupid
     handmade gift made while watching a stupid show. I bet my friends who got to watch
     the shows they wanted, like Starsky and Hutch, also got presents they’d actually asked for.
    My disappointment over the morning snow now seemed trivial compared to how upset I
     was about my present. You’re an idiot, I thought to myself. You should have known. You should have seen it coming.
    Mom looked at me with eyes that were, for once, surprisingly hard to read. Was she
     relieved that I seemed to be so happy, or did she see right through my act? Quite
     honestly, at that moment, I didn’t really care, but I knew that I couldn’t keep up
     the charade forever. I had to escape.
    “I’m just going to run up to my bedroom and put it away. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
     I felt a familiar, relentless burn returning to my eyes. I ran upstairs before Mom
     could see my tears.

Five
    M y bedroom window looked out over the street in front of our house. Before my prepubescent
     growth spurt, I could stand at the sill, put my elbows on it, and rest my chin on
     my hands.
    That Christmas morning I was just a little too tall to do that anymore, so I stood
     back a few inches, put my hands on the sill, and leaned forward until my forehead
     rested against the cold glass. It burned my skin, but I felt like I deserved the pain.
    The snow had finally started. They were big, beautiful flakes, and the thin white
     coating on the street meant thatit had already been falling for a while now. I guess I’d been too busy feeling sorry
     for myself to notice.
    I was just about to turn away when I saw the little girl across the street riding
     a brand-new bike in her driveway. Her dad was walking alongside, as if he didn’t trust
     the training wheels on the slippery asphalt. My eyes began to burn again, right along
     with my forehead.
    I crossed over to my bed and fell on it. Luke Skywalker taunted me with the memory
     of a great Christmas present from the past. Images of the girl on the bike kept running
     through my head. I saw the wheels spin around and around as she rode it like she’d
     been the freest girl in the world. Free to travel two, three, maybe four houses away. Free.
    I focused on my ceiling. It was filthy. The roof leaked a little every time it rained,
     and water soaked the plaster, leaving splotches and lines. Nothing in my life was
     perfect. Other kids had new bikes, two parents, and ceilings that didn’t leak. It just wasn’t fair.
    “Eddie!” Mom cried out from the hall as my bedroom door swung open. “Have you looked
     outside yet? Dad’sgift to you is here…it’s a Christmas miracle! It hasn’t snowed like this since—”
    I had been staring at the ceiling, unable to look at her when she came in. I knew
     my face would betray me. But after a few seconds of silence I sat up on the bed to
     see what was going on. Mom was staring at the floor by my dresser. “Is that your sweater?”
     she asked quietly. I had dropped it there without even thinking. It was rolled up
     like a ball, like something that belonged in the trash can.
    “Sorry. I should have put it away,” I said meekly as I started to get up from the
     bed.
    “It looks like you already have,” she replied. The pain in her voice and the disappointment
     on her face shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. After a few moments of silence,
     she looked up from the sweater and directly into my eyes. “Please don’t treat your
     sweater that way.”
    I