She marched in like she owned the place. Red lipstick. Fresh blowout.
Tight dress. High heels clicking like a horse trotting through my hallway.
“Elaine?” I said. “What are you—”
She didn’t answer.
She walked straight past the dining room to my kitchen.
She opened my cabinet, pulled out my brand-new Tupperware set I’d bought for leftovers, and started snapping containers apart like she’d been planning this all week.
“Mom?” Eric said, standing up. “What are you doing?”
She was already lifting the turkey off the table.
“I need this,” she said, like it was obvious. “My new man is expecting a home-cooked dinner.
I didn’t have time. The salon ran late.”
I stared at her.
“Elaine, stop,” I said. “We’re about to eat.
That’s our dinner.”
She rolled her eyes and started shoveling stuffing into a big container.
“Don’t be stingy,” she said. “You have plenty. You’re so good at this.
Share the wealth.”
I felt my face go hot.
“You’ll still have something,” she said. “Look at all this.
You don’t need all of it.”
She grabbed the mashed potatoes next. Then the gravy. Then the green bean casserole.
Cranberry sauce. Mac ‘n’ cheese. Cornbread.
If it wasn’t nailed down, it was going into a container.
Lily whispered, “Mom?” from the table.
Max just stared, eyes huge.
I followed Elaine into the kitchen.
“Elaine, that’s enough,” I said, stepping between her and the stove.
“Put the turkey down. You can’t take our entire dinner.”
She froze for a second and gave me a tight, fake smile.
“Sweetheart,” she said, voice dripping sugar. “You should be thankful people admire your cooking.
This is a compliment.”
“This is theft,” I said.
She shrugged, picked up the turkey anyway, and dumped it into the biggest container.
I felt something inside me crack.
“Mom, I’m serious,” Eric said, coming in behind me. “Stop. You’re taking everything.”
“Oh my God, Eric, don’t be dramatic,” she said.
“You’re not five. You don’t need a big fancy dinner to feel loved.”
She snapped lids on. Each click sounded like a door slamming shut.
She stacked the containers into reusable grocery bags she’d brought with her.
She’d planned this.
She hauled the bags to the front door.
We followed her like stunned ducks. She opened her trunk, stuffed everything in, then turned and smiled.
“You should really be grateful,” she said to me. “This means your food is in demand.”
Then she got in her car, shut the door, and drove away with my entire Thanksgiving dinner.
The house went silent.
The table was still set.
Candles lit. Napkins folded. Platters empty.
I walked back into the kitchen and grabbed the counter with both hands.
My body shook.
I didn’t cry right away.
It was like my brain couldn’t process it yet.
Eric came in and put his hand on my back.
“Babe… don’t cry,” he whispered.
I let out a sharp laugh that sounded more like a sob.
“I spent four days on that,” I said. “Four days. She just… took it.”
“I know,” he said.
“I’m so sorry.”
The kids hovered in the doorway.
“Are we… not having Thanksgiving?” Max asked quietly.
My heart broke a little.
“We’re still having Thanksgiving,” I said, forcing my voice to sound cheerful. “It’s just going to look different.”
We had frozen pizza in the freezer.
I pulled it out, still shaking, and turned on the oven.
Lily tugged my sleeve.
“Why did Grandma take our food?” she asked.
Because she’s selfish. Because she thinks everything is hers.
Because no one ever told her no.
“Sometimes,” I said instead, “people care more about themselves than anyone else. But that’s their problem. Not yours.”
We ate frozen pizza at my carefully set Thanksgiving table.
Candles. Place cards. Cloth napkins.
And a greasy cardboard box in the middle.
I tried to make jokes. The kids laughed a little. Eric kept saying, “This is temporary, okay?
We’ll fix it.”
Inside, I felt empty.
After dinner, the kids went to play video games. I was loading the dishwasher with our pizza-stained plates when Eric’s phone started ringing on the counter.
He checked the screen.
“It’s her,” he said flatly.
I took a deep breath.
“Put it on speaker,” I said.
He did.
“Hello?” he answered.
“ERIC!!!”
We both winced. Elaine’s voice screeched through the kitchen.
Even the cat ran out of the room.
“What happened, Mom?” he asked.
“HOW COULD YOU LET ME DO THIS?!” she shrieked. “You ruined everything!”
I frowned. “What?”
“His dinner!” she wailed.
“His PERFECT Thanksgiving dinner!”
“Whose dinner?” Eric asked. “Your boyfriend’s?”
“Yes!” she said. “And now he thinks I’m insane!
He thinks I lied to him!”
I raised my eyebrows. I wonder why.
“What happened?” Eric said, too calm.
Elaine sucked in a dramatic breath.
“He’s a vegan!” she cried.
Eric blinked. “What?”
“A VEGAN, ERIC!” she screamed.
“I totally forgot! I showed up with a whole turkey. A whole spread.
Meat, butter, cheese, everything! He looked at me like I’d brought a corpse to his house!”
I slapped my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.
“And then,” she continued, “I was carrying your wife’s stupid turkey to the table when the bottom of the container broke. It just exploded!
Turkey juice all over the floor. The dog was licking gravy off my shoes. I slipped in mashed potatoes!”
I lost it.
I started laughing silently, tears streaming down my face.
Eric was biting his lip.
“And then,” she said, voice wobbling, “he looks at me and goes, ‘Elaine, you know I’m vegan.’ Like I didn’t just spend weeks listening to him talk about tofu. He said I was disrespectful and performative. PERFORMATIVE.” Continue reading…
