On Thanksgiving morning, Cora’s husband surprises her with a promise: he’s cooking dinner, and she’s to relax. But hours later, a chilling discovery flips her world on its head. As guests gather and praise his perfect meal, Cora prepares for a reveal of her own — one they’ll never forget.
Thanksgiving morning felt almost unreal — it was too quiet, too warm, and too perfect. I woke up to the scent of cinnamon and cloves drifting down the hallway, grounded by the sharper bite of fresh coffee. My husband, Eric, doesn’t wake up early.
He doesn’t cook. And yet, when I followed the scent into the kitchen, there he was — standing barefoot in front of the stove, cracking eggs with a confidence I’d never seen him fake before. “Morning, babe,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a grin.
“I took the day off. This year, I’m making Thanksgiving dinner. You just put your feet up and relax.
Or go for a drive! Or get your nails done!”
Relax? On Thanksgiving!
“You’re serious?” I asked, leaning in the doorway, still halfway between sleep and disbelief.
“Dead serious, babe,” he said, whisk in hand. “No chopping, no basting, and no yelling at the oven when it ignores the time.”
“I don’t yell,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Sure you don’t,” my husband smirked.
“Go to the café,” he said. “Take your books. Get that weird tea you like.
Just… come back late, okay? I want it to be a surprise.
I want to… make you proud of me.”
I paused with my hand on the doorway, watching him move around the kitchen like he belonged there. I hadn’t seen him like this before: focused, comfortable, and confident in a way that didn’t feel forced.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “You know you don’t have to prove anything, right? It’s just our families for dinner tonight.”
“Cora,” Eric said, smiling as he rolled up his sleeves.
“You’ve cooked every Thanksgiving dinner since we got married. Let me give you a break this year. For once, just enjoy the day and trust me.”
“All right,” I said.
“I’m going to shower and then head out to the café. Just call me if you need me or anything for dinner.”
“Have fun, honey,” Eric said, waving a spatula at me like a magic wand. “And get the window seat you like.
The one where you pretend to read but you’re really just eavesdropping on everyone.”
I laughed loudly. “Don’t tell on me, babe.”
Only my mother calls me Coraline — that should’ve been the first sign. But in that moment, all I saw was the man I’d loved since college, standing barefoot in my kitchen, pretending to be a chef.
I wanted to believe that this was growth, maturity… a little late in our marriage, maybe, but genuine. And just like that, I handed over the holiday to him.
It wasn’t until two hours later, with my chai latte going cold on the table beside me and the words on the page beginning to blur, that I decided to check on Eric. I unlocked my phone and checked the nanny camera that we’d installed a few months ago — after our neighborhood went through a series of break-ins. And when it did load, my chest seized in a way I hadn’t expected.
A woman walked into our kitchen — my kitchen — as though she’d been there a hundred times before. She wasn’t cautious or confused. Instead, she moved with the confidence of someone who had memorized the layout…
like someone who’d been invited in many times before, not someone who’d snuck in. She had long, glossy brown hair and wore a fitted cream sweater that clung to her like it was tailored to her body. She wasn’t rushing in or sneaking around; she was completely at ease.
Then Eric followed behind her, a smile plastered to his face. “Mel,” he said, his voice soft. “This house always smells so good.
It’s the cinnamon, isn’t it, babe?” she asked, turning her head toward him. I sat frozen in the café, staring at my phone like it had betrayed me, too. “Oh, Eric,” she said after a moment.
“Where is the famous turkey? The one your wife thinks you’re cooking for your family dinner? Let’s get the cooking going so we can spend some…
time together.”
“Cora practically cried when I offered to cook,” Eric chuckled as he opened the fridge and pulled out two turkeys. “Goodness, that’s rich,” Mel giggled. “She’s too…
trusting. Poor thing.”
Eric seasoned the turkey and nodded toward one of the pans. “This one’s ours. That one’s for tonight’s dinner.”
“Don’t mix them up,” Mel said, pointing with a manicured finger.
“I’m not a fan of too much lemon in the marinade. And I’m taking this home tonight, Eric. For our own Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow.”
She leaned in closer, one hand grazing the counter like she was claiming it.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
