I used to think the wildest thing my mother-in-law had ever done was sneak a turkey leg into her purse on Thanksgiving. Turns out, that was nothing. This year, she walked into my house in six-inch heels, walked back out with my entire Thanksgiving dinner, and somehow still managed to frame the whole disaster as my fault. But karma? Karma had plans of its own.
Thanksgiving is my pride and joy. My holiday. My whole personality for two weeks straight. I pull out my grandmother’s old recipe cards — the ones smudged with butter and written in shaky handwriting — and I cook like the world is watching. Real butter, real cream, herbs chopped by hand, pies chilled overnight so the filling sets perfectly. It’s days of work, and I don’t cut corners.
My mother-in-law, Elaine, is the opposite. Cooking means nothing to her. Effort means nothing to her. Boundaries definitely mean nothing to her. Over the years, she’s made a habit of “stopping by” on Thanksgiving and helping herself to something I cooked. A pan of stuffing. A pie. A piece of turkey. Always with a breezy compliment before she slips back out the door.
Every year, my husband, Eric, would get annoyed for a moment and then tell me, “It’s just food.” But for me, it was more. It was tradition and love — the one time of year I felt connected to my grandmother in the kitchen. This year, I promised myself the day would be peaceful. And for a while, it was. The house smelled like roasted turkey. The table looked like a magazine. The kids were excited. Everything felt perfect.
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