The moment those words hit our ears, Seth and I exchanged furious glances. Mom works full-time, manages the house, helps us with school projects, and still somehow keeps us fed. Meanwhile, Dad lounges around, convinced his role as the “man of the house” absolves him of responsibility.

We weren’t about to let his cruel joke slide. So, Operation Outplay was born.

First, we crafted an email to every family member joining us for Christmas. “Hi everyone,” it began, “this is Stella and Seth. We need your help to make this Christmas special for Mom. Dad wants you to buy her kitchen gadgets, but we think she deserves better. Here’s a list of gifts she’d actually love: a designer bag she’s admired for ages, her favorite skincare products, a spa day gift card, a personalized necklace, and a cozy reading chair. Oh, and for Dad? Please buy him fishing rods. As many as possible. Trust us—it’s part of the plan.”

The responses were immediate. Aunt Patricia wrote back, “Count me in!” Grandpa added, “Fishing rod it is. This will be fun!”

Fast forward to Christmas morning. Mom had been up since dawn baking and brewing coffee, while Dad sat by the fire, sipping hot chocolate without a care in the world. The tree sparkled with lights, and our family of twelve—aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins—gathered for the gift exchange.

One by one, the presents were opened. Aunt Patricia handed Dad the first box. A fishing rod.

“Oh. A fishing rod. Nice,” Dad said awkwardly.

Seth handed him another box. “Merry Christmas, Dad!”

Another fishing rod.

As Dad unwrapped box after box—each one revealing yet another fishing rod—his expression morphed from confusion to irritation. By the fifth rod, he was scowling.

“What the hell is this? Who needs this many fishing rods?” he snapped.

Meanwhile, Mom unwrapped her beautifully wrapped designer purse. Her face lit up with joy. “Oh my gosh! This is gorgeous. How did you all know?”

Uncle Nick grinned. “We had some inside help. Stella and Seth sent us a wishlist.”

Tears welled in Mom’s eyes as she looked at us. “You two did this?”

We nodded. Seth spoke up, “You deserve it, Mom.”

Dad, still clutching his fishing rods, exploded. “Where are all the kitchen gadgets? I told you guys to buy her kitchen stuff! She needs those!”

Mom’s smile faded. “Wait. You asked everyone to buy me kitchen gadgets?”

Seth didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, Dad said you were ‘lazy in the kitchen’ and needed gadgets to cook better. We thought you deserved more.”

The room went silent. Dad’s face turned beet red. “That’s not what I meant!”

“Oh really, Dad?” Seth pressed. “Because that’s exactly what you said.”

Mom’s voice trembled with anger. “So, you’ve been complaining about me behind my back? And it took our kids to remind you to appreciate me?”

Dad stammered, “It was a joke!”

Mom crossed her arms. “Funny. Because I’m not laughing.”

With that, she picked up one of the fishing rods and dropped it into Dad’s lap. “Here. Enjoy your new toys. Maybe you’ll learn something useful while fishing.”

Dad slumped back into his chair, defeated.

The rest of the day was perfect. Mom’s gifts kept coming—the spa day voucher, the personalized necklace, the reading chair. She cried tears of joy, hugged each of us tightly, and thanked everyone for their thoughtfulness.

Later that night, as the chaos died down, Mom pulled Seth and me into a tight hug.

“You two have no idea how much this means to me,” she whispered. “I don’t need fancy things, but knowing you see how hard I work—that’s everything.”

I smiled. “Of course we see it, Mom. We just wanted to make sure you knew how much we appreciate you.”

Seth added, “And we wanted Dad to realize it, too.”

Mom laughed softly, wiping her eyes. “You two are the best. And your plan? Pure genius.”

Safe to say, Dad never dared call Mom “lazy” again. Sometimes, the best lessons don’t come wrapped in ribbons—they come with fishing rods.