“Start cooking at 4 a.m.,” my mother-in-law ordered, handing me the guest list. “And make sure everything is perfect this time,” my husband added. I smiled and said, “Of course.”
But at 3 a.m., I was at the airport instead.
Thirty hungry relatives—the masked bonds—arrived to find an empty kitchen.
The gate agent’s voice crackled through the airport speakers at 3:17 a.m. Final boarding call for Flight 442 to Maui.
I clutched my boarding pass with trembling fingers, the paper already damp with sweat and tears. Behind me, somewhere in our suburban house forty minutes away, thirty place settings sat empty on the dining room table I had spent three hours arranging the night before.
The turkey I was supposed to have started preparing an hour ago remained frozen solid in the refrigerator, like my heart had been for the past five years.
My phone buzzed with another text from Hudson. Hope you’re up cooking, babe. Mom’s already texting about timing.
I switched it off and stepped onto the plane, leaving behind more than just a Thanksgiving dinner.
I was abandoning a life that had slowly strangled me one “helpful” suggestion and dismissive comment at a time. As the plane lifted into the dark sky, I pressed my forehead against the cold window and watched the city lights fade below.
Somewhere down there, Vivien would arrive at 2 p.m. expecting her perfect feast.
And Hudson would stand there confused, probably calling me selfish for the first time to my face instead of behind my back to his mother.
But I wouldn’t be there to see the shock in their eyes. I wouldn’t be there to apologize. For once in five years, I wouldn’t be there at all.
And that thought terrified and thrilled me in equal measure.
Three days earlier, the sound of Vivien’s heels clicking across our hardwood floor always reminded me of a judge’s gavel—sharp, decisive, final. She swept into our kitchen like she owned it, which, according to Hudson, she practically did since they’d helped us with the down payment.
“Isabella, darling.” Her voice carried that particular tone she used when she was about to assign me a task disguised as a favor. “We need to discuss Thanksgiving arrangements.”
I was elbow-deep in dishwater from the dinner I’d just served them—Hudson’s favorite pot roast with all the sides his mother had taught me to make the “right” way during my first year of marriage.
My hands were raw from the scalding water, but I’d learned not to wear rubber gloves around Vivien.
She’d once commented that they made me look “unprofessional.”
“Of course,” I replied, forcing brightness into my voice. “What can I do to help?”
Hudson looked up from his phone long enough to share a glance with his mother. I’d seen it thousands of times over the years, a silent communication that excluded me entirely, as if I were a child who couldn’t be trusted with adult conversations.
Vivien reached into her designer purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
The way she handled it with such ceremony made my stomach twist into knots. She placed it on the counter next to me with the care of someone presenting evidence in court.
“The guest list for Thursday,” she announced. “I’ve invited a few more people this year.
Cousin Cynthia is bringing her new boyfriend.
Uncle Raymond is coming with his whole family, and the Sanders from the country club will be joining us as well.”
I dried my hands on a dish towel and picked up the paper. As I unfolded it, the names kept coming and coming. I counted once, then twice, certain I’d made a mistake.
“Thirty people.” The words came out as barely a whisper.
“Thirty-two, actually. Little Timmy Sanders counts as a half person since he’s only six.” She smiled lightly.
“But you should still prepare for thirty full portions. Growing boy and all that.”
Vivien’s laugh was like crystal breaking.
“I know it seems like a lot, but you’ve gotten so good at hosting these family events.
Everyone always raves about your cooking.”
Hudson finally looked up from his phone, but only to nod in agreement. “You got this, babe. You always pull it off.”
I stared at the list, my eyes blurring slightly as I tried to process what they were asking.
In previous years, we’d hosted maybe fifteen people, and even that had meant I’d started cooking two days in advance, barely slept, and spent the entire dinner running back and forth between the kitchen and dining room while everyone else relaxed.
“When did you invite all these people?” I asked, my voice smaller than I intended. “Over the past few weeks,” Vivien said dismissively.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
