Thanksgiving dinner is meant for joy and gratitude, but this year, it delivered an unexpected revelation that changed everything.
The evening seemed perfect. The table was set, laughter filled the house, and the aroma of turkey lingered in the air. My husband, Peter, prepared the turkey while I welcomed guests.
Yet, our eight-year-old daughter, Emma, seemed unusually restless, glancing out the window and avoiding Peter’s smiles.
As we gathered to carve the turkey, Emma climbed onto her chair, her voice cutting through the chatter.
“And where is SHE?!” she demanded.
The room fell silent. “Who are you talking about, sweetie?” I asked nervously.
Emma pointed to Peter. “The woman Dad keeps in our shed!”
Shock rippled through the room. Peter’s face turned pale. “Emily, we need to talk,” he said, gesturing for me to follow him.
Outside, dread weighed heavy as we approached the shed. Peter hesitated, then opened the door. Inside sat a woman, frail and weary, her gray-streaked hair framing her lined face.
“Who is she?” I whispered.
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