“Four a.m.?” I repeated.
“Start cooking at four a.m. in the morning,” she said more firmly this time, handing me the guest list. “And make sure everything is perfect this time.”
Hudson looked up then, but only to add his own emphasis.
“Yeah. And make sure everything is perfect this time. The stuffing was a little dry last year.”
The stuffing that I had made while simultaneously managing six other dishes while he watched football in the living room. The stuffing that everyone else had complimented. The stuffing his mother had specifically requested I make again this year.
“Of course,” I heard myself say. “Of course. I’ll make sure everything’s perfect.”
But as I stood there holding that list of thirty-two names and a menu that would challenge a restaurant kitchen, something cold settled in the pit of my stomach. It was not just the impossibility of the task they had assigned me. It was the casual way they had assigned it, as if my time, my effort, my sanity were commodities they could spend without consideration.
Later that night, after Vivien had gone home and Hudson had fallen asleep, I sat at our kitchen table with a calculator, trying to figure out the logistics. The turkey alone would need to go in the oven at six a.m. to be ready by two p.m., but I would need the oven space for other dishes. The math did not work. The timing was impossible.
I found myself staring at the guest list, really looking at it for the first time.
Thirty-two people.
But my name was not on it.
I was cooking for thirty-two people, and I was not even considered a guest at the dinner I was preparing.
That was when I noticed something else. Hudson’s cousin Ruby was not on the list. Ruby, who had been coming to family Thanksgiving for years. Ruby, who had recently gotten divorced and was having a hard time.
I picked up my phone and called her.
“Isabella? It’s kind of late. Is everything okay?”
“I was just wondering. Are you coming to Thanksgiving this year?”
There was a long pause.
“Well, Vivien called last week. She said that since I’m single now and going through such a difficult time, maybe it would be better if I spent the holiday somewhere more appropriate for my situation. She suggested I might be more comfortable at a smaller gathering.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“She uninvited you?”
“She didn’t put it that way. But yes, I guess she did.”
Ruby had been family for eight years, but the moment her life became messy, the moment she might need support instead of being able to provide entertainment value, Vivien had cut her from the list.
After I hung up, I sat in the dark kitchen for a long time. The list of names blurred in front of me as tears I had been holding back for hours finally came. But they were not just tears of frustration about the impossible task ahead of me. They were tears of recognition, because I saw myself in Ruby’s situation. I saw what happened when you stopped being useful to Vivien. When you stopped being the perfect daughter-in-law who could pull off impossible dinners and never complain. When you became more trouble than you were worth.
I was one bad Thanksgiving away from being uninvited from my own life.
Tuesday morning, the grocery store at six a.m. was a wasteland of fluorescent lights and empty aisles. I had been there since opening, my cart overflowing with ingredients for a meal that seemed more impossible with each item. I added three turkeys, two hams, pounds upon pounds of vegetables that I would need to prep, chop, and cook into submission.
The checkout total made my hands shake as I swiped our credit card, knowing Hudson would see the charge later and probably comment about the expense.
Mrs. Suzanne from next door was in line behind me with a single bag of coffee and some muffins.
“Having a big dinner this year?” she asked, eyeing my overflowing cart with concern.
“Thanksgiving for thirty-two,” I replied, trying to sound casual about it.
Her eyes widened.
“Thirty-two? By yourself?”
“My husband will help,” I said automatically, though the words tasted like lies.
She looked at me for a long moment, and I could see pity creeping into her expression.
“Honey, that’s not help. That’s watching someone drown while standing on the dock.”
Her words followed me home and echoed in my head as I began the prep work. I laid out ingredients across every available counter space, transforming our kitchen into something that looked more like a commercial food preparation facility than a home.
By noon, I had been working for six hours straight and had barely made a dent in what needed to be done. My back ached, my feet throbbed, and I had not eaten anything except a handful of crackers.
That was when Hudson wandered into the kitchen, still in his pajamas, coffee mug in hand.
“Well, you’re really going all out this year,” he said, surveying the chaos. “Smells good already.”
I was elbow-deep in turkey stuffing, my hands coated with a mixture of breadcrumbs, celery, and raw egg.
“Can you help me get this into the bird? I can’t manage it alone.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Actually, I promised the guys I’d meet them for a quick round of golf. Pre-holiday tradition, you know. But I’ll be back in plenty of time to help with the heavy lifting tomorrow.”
I stared at him.
“Golf? Today?”
“Just nine holes. Maybe eighteen if we’re making good time. You know how it is.”
He was already heading toward the door.
“You’ve got everything under control here anyway. You’re like a machine when it comes to this stuff.”
Like a machine.
The words hit me harder than they should have.
Machines do not get tired.
Machines do not need help.
Machines do not have feelings that can be hurt by casual dismissal.
He was gone before I could respond, leaving me alone with thirty-two people’s worth of food and the growing realization that I was invisible in my own home.
The afternoon dragged by in a blur of chopping, seasoning, and precooking what could be prepared ahead of time. Every surface in the kitchen was covered with dishes in various stages of completion. The refrigerator was so packed I had to play Tetris with containers just to fit everything in.
Around five p.m., Vivien called.
“Just checking in on the preparations, dear. How are things coming along?”
I looked around the disaster zone that was my kitchen, at my hands that were raw and stinging from constant washing and food prep, at the mountain of dishes that had already accumulated.
“Fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
