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First of all, just as Dickens declared that Marley was as dead as a doornail in "The Christmas Carol," I must emphatically state for my little Christmas story that the theft I'm about to disclose wasn't premeditated.

I will also add that you know you love someone when you're willing to stuff your couch for his Christmas visit.

It took place before Matthew and I were married. After talking to each other on the phone for a few months we had met and dated in San Antonio, thanks to my sister Annie introducing us. Now I was back at my parents' home, preparing for Matthew to come up for our first Christmas together.

One afternoon Dad and I laughed hysterically together, because I was up to my shoulder in the back of our overturned couch, trying to re-stuff it to an acceptable point of cushioning. It was well-used or well-loved, if you'd rather. But I didn't think it had the right amount of oomph, so I was shoving old (clean, mind you) clothes into the back of it, so I wouldn't feel embarrassed when my beau showed up. If I had been smart, I would have scented those clothes with lavender spritz from Bath and Body Works. Then while Matthew and I canoodled on its lumpy but cushy surface, he might suddenly have said while staring deep into my eyes, "What is that heavenly scent my nose doth detect in your presence?" I, of course, would have answered, "It is me, and you are in love!"

It's funny that this is one of my best memories of those last few months in my parents' home - Dad and I laughing our heads off over the little details that matter so much when you're infatuated with someone, like a well-proportioned couch.

Another great memory has to do with that little matter of the theft.

The soon-to-be-purloined item arrived in a Christmas package from Virginia, a package full of thoughtful gifts from my big sister Vinca who always remembered everyone. This year she had remembered Matthew. She knew my guy was coming to Idaho for his first visit with our folks, so she had gotten him the best gift she could think of - lacking a background check on him, a list of his childhood hobbies or a network of relatives to report on his daily habits. She had gotten him chocolate, and Bravo! There is no better gift that says, "I don't know you, but you'd be a fool not to enjoy this."

But curiosity killed the gift - Dad's and my curiosity, you know. We just couldn't figure out why Vinca would send a present to someone she didn't know and who wasn't officially a part of the family. I mean, really, I hadn't actually married the guy yet...and even then Christmas gifts are kind of probationary for the first year or two.

Dad and I studied the rectangular package beneath the tree for a couple of days until we just couldn't stand it anymore.

"We should see what's in there," said Dad.

"I agree."

I don't remember who did the honors of ripping off Vinca's impeccable wrapping job of tasteful, quality paper. Of course we were going to make it right. We just had to peek, that's all....

Oh, no! Chocolate! It was a box of chocolates. From that moment I think we both knew what was going to happen, but we intended to fight our naughty chocolate-foraging instincts.

We laid it carefullyon the kitchen bar, just so we wouldn't forget it.

"We'll wrap it back up nicely later," said Dad. "Or put it in a festive gift bag."

Sure, but until then we walked past it several times that day wondering what kinds of fillings were in it. A cordial cherry or two, perhaps? Ooh, maybe a few truffles. And who doesn't like those crunchy little nut-flaked ganaches? Yum-yum. Were there any dark chocolates in the picture on the box?

"Matthew will never know," Dad said to me that evening as we stared at each other's pinched faces.

"He wasn't expecting anything!" I responded too loudly. "He doesn't even know Vinca. Maybe by name...." But a Vinca by any other name is still the sister of just a girlfriend.

The voice of reason was there: Mom.

"Shame on you guys! Don't do it," she admonished. "Vinca sent that for Matthew. He needs presents under the tree, too."

"I got him something," I pointed out.

"I'll get him something," said Dad, smirking.

We looked at each other. Then we slid the chocolate off the bar, ripped off the cellophane packaging, and while sitting on the newly overstuffed couch together, pigged out happily on our purloined chocolates. We had warm feelings for Vinca's thoughtfulness that day.

Did I tell Matthew about his absent gift? Not that Christmas, no, but I did a few years later when I suddenly remembered and had a good chuckle by our own Christmas tree. Okay, yes it was very wrong…but wrong never tasted so sweet.

- Hillary Ibarra

Hillary Ibarra has had several humor pieces published on Aiming Low and humorwriters.org. She has dreams of playing the banjo, living in Jane Austen's childhood home and writing for more than spam artists and 50 loyal readers but can't seem to find them in the laundry. She is the mysterious blogger at No Pens, Pencils, Knives or Scissors. In her spare time she likes to threaten to sell her children to the zoo, and their little dog, too.