Gift Receipt
An old man walked into the department store holding a sweater that looked like it had lost a fight with a disco ball.
At the counter, the young clerk smiled politely. “Hi there! Do you have a gift receipt?”
“Nope,” he said. “It was a gift. From my daughter. For Christmas. I hate it.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but without a gift receipt, we can’t accept returns.”
He left without another word.
Twenty minutes later, he returned—dragging his adult daughter by the wrist.
She was still in pajamas, holding a mug that said World’s Okayest Child.
“Tell her,” he said, pushing her forward.
She sighed. “Yes. I gave him the sweater. No, he didn’t like it. Yes, I told him not to wear it to church.”
“Approved,” said the clerk.
The next day, he came back with a giant bottle of perfume that reeked like sadness and synthetic lilac.
“Another return,” he grunted.
“Gift receipt?” she asked.
He gestured dramatically.
From behind the aisle emerged his wife, arms folded, with a look that could melt plastic.
“I gave it to him,” she said. “Because he smells like garage. Apparently he prefers ‘essence of lawn clippings.’”
The clerk processed the return in silence.
On the third day, the old man arrived with a perfectly wrapped box, tied with a silver bow.
He said nothing. Just placed it gently on the counter.
“What’s in the box, sir?” the clerk asked.
“No receipt,” he said. “But… trust me. This will cover it.”
She looked around. “Cover what, exactly?”
“Just open it.”
Warily, she untied the ribbon and peeked inside.
Inside the box… was a snow globe.
But not just any snow globe.
Inside the globe… was a tiny version of herself, standing behind a miniature cash register, looking very tired.
She blinked. “What the—how—?!”
The old man leaned in, dead serious.
“I’ve been returning things here since 1987.”
He pointed at the swirling snow.
“You see that? That’s your soul.”
She backed away, pale.
“Okay. Okay. What... do you want to return?”
He smiled warmly.
“The Blender. It made my soup explode.”
