My mother-in-law told me to wake up at four in the morning to cook Thanksgiving dinner for thirty of her guests. My husband, Hudson, chimed in with a smile, “This time, make sure everything is really perfect.” I smiled back and said, “Of course.” At three a.m., I rolled my suitcase to the airport. The gate agent’s voice crackled above me.
“Final boarding for Flight 442 to Maui.
Final boarding.” I looked through the window at the dark November runway and, for a heartbeat, I didn’t see planes at all. I saw our Ohio kitchen: the dining room already set for thirty, the still-frozen turkeys, the guest list Vivien had placed on the counter like a court order, and the short note I’d left for Hudson.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—Hope you’re up cooking, babe. Mom’s texting about timing.
I powered it off and stepped onto the jet bridge.
I wasn’t only walking away from a meal. I was walking away from the version of me who had said “of course” to everything for the last five years. Three days earlier, the whole chain of events began with the sound of Vivien’s heels on our hardwood floor—sharp and decisive, each click a verdict.
She swept into the kitchen the way she entered every room, like ownership came with the air around her.
Hudson liked to remind me that his parents had “basically bought us this house” by helping with the down payment. I had learned quickly that “basically bought” meant “we get to decide how this house runs.”
I was elbow-deep in soapy water, rinsing plates from the pot roast I’d made because it was “Hudson’s favorite” and because years ago Vivien had shown me the “proper” way to make it.
My hands were pink from the heat. I had stopped wearing dish gloves the day she laughed and said they made me look “oddly professional, like you think this is a job.”
“Isabella, darling,” she sang, dropping her designer purse on the counter.
That tone always meant a task was coming, wrapped up as a compliment.
“We need to finalize Thanksgiving.”
“Of course,” I said, forcing cheer into my voice. “What do you have in mind?”
Hudson sat at the island scrolling his phone. At his mother’s words he glanced up, sharing with her the small, private look of two people speaking over someone else’s head.
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