The Territorial

Franklin Weller had never been good at wrapping presents. Oh, he’d tried, Lord knows he’d tried, but his gifts always looked wrapped by a mild earthquake.

Corners bunched up, tape stuck to everything except the paper, and bows were a luxury he abandoned after the Great Ribbon Incident of ’09. Still, Franklin loved giving gifts.

Birthdays, retirements, that one time Janet from accounting got a cat, he was there with something awkwardly shaped and unevenly taped. Nobody ever mistook his wrapping for store-bought, but everyone knew the same thing: Franklin’s presents were worth unwrapping.

One Christmas, Franklin had an idea. He decided people were a lot like presents.

Some were wrapped neatly, with smooth edges and coordinated paper. Others looked like they’d been through customs twice. But in both cases, he thought, what mattered wasn’t the wrapping, it was what you found when you looked inside.

He shared this revelation with his neighbor, Doris Keene, a woman who believed strongly in two things: gossip and good tea.

“Well, Franklin,” she said, peering over her cup, “if people are presents, then some of ‘em are re-gifts.”

Franklin had to admit she had a point.

He began to see it everywhere. His boss, Mr. Wendt, had a slick exterior, the tailored suits, and shoes that clicked on tile like castanets, but he was about as warm as a refrigerator light. Inside, Franklin suspected, was a man who’d once dreamed big but settled for managing spreadsheets.

Then there was Marcy, the intern. Her wrapping was all energy and neon nail polish, but inside was a thoughtful young woman who remembered everyone’s coffee order and once brought Franklin soup when he was suffering with the flu.

And Doris, of course, came wrapped in floral patterns and fierce opinions, but beneath all that was a heart as kind as a summer sunrise.

Franklin decided he’d start paying more attention to people’s insides, metaphorically speaking, of course. He made a point to listen more, judge less, and see beyond the paper and tape.

The results were surprising.

When he stopped assuming his grumpy mailman hated his job, he learned the man was saving up to open a bakery. When he stopped avoiding the quiet guy at the gym, he found a chess partner who could beat him blindfolded.

Even Mr. Wendt began to seem less refrigerator-light-ish.

One Friday, Franklin found him sitting alone in the breakroom, staring into a cup of decaf. When Mr. Wendt entered and sat down beside him, before sighing, “You ever feel like you missed your own party?”

It wasn’t exactly a Hallmark moment, but it was enough. Franklin nodded, and they talked, not about spreadsheets, but about life and lemon pie and what might have been.

That night, Franklin thought about all the people he’d met and realized something: every single one of them, no matter how odd, prickly, or poorly wrapped, had a story worth opening.

The next morning, he went to Doris’s porch with a lopsided package. Inside was a small ceramic teapot he’d found at a thrift store, chipped, but charming. He’d wrapped it the best he could.

Doris unwrapped it carefully, then looked up with that familiar twinkle in her eye. “You know, Franklin,” she said, “this reminds me of people.”

He chuckled. “How so?”

“Well,” she said, pouring them both some tea, “it’s what’s inside that counts. But it doesn’t hurt if the wrapping shows you tried.”

Franklin raised his cup in agreement.

And that, he decided, was the secret to both presents and people, care in the giving, curiosity in the opening, and a little grace for the crooked corners.