Eric finally said, “So, let me make sure I understand.
You stole our whole Thanksgiving, tried to pass it off as yours, forgot he was vegan, and then dumped it all over his floor.”
“How else is there to say it?” he asked.
“And then he told me to leave!” she wailed. “Said not to call him again until I ‘learn how to be honest with myself.’ He broke up with me ON THANKSGIVING. In front of his friends!”
Silence.
Then she added, furious, “THIS IS ALL HER FAULT!”
“My… fault?” I said before I could stop myself.
“Yes, YOU,” she shouted.
“If you didn’t cook so much, he would’ve believed I made it! If you weren’t such a show-off in the kitchen, I wouldn’t have needed to take it. You set me up!”
And with that, she hung up.
Eric and I just stared at each other for a second.
Then we both burst into hysterical laughter.
We slid down the cabinets and sat on the floor, laughing until our sides hurt.
Not because it was actually funny. Because the whole thing was so insane that our brains didn’t know what else to do.
When we finally calmed down, Eric wiped his eyes.
“She really said this is your fault,” he said.
“Of course she did,” I said. “She lives in delusion.”
He went from amused to exhausted.
“I’m done,” he said quietly. “I’m so done making excuses for her.”
He stood up and held out his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “Shoes.
Kids! Shoes on. We’re going out.”
“Out where?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” he said.
We got the kids in coats and piled into the car.
He drove downtown.
Most places were closed and dark, but one restaurant still had warm lights glowing and a little sign that said, “Thanksgiving Prix Fixe.”
“Eric, this place is fancy,” I said.
“So are you,” he said. “And you’re not cooking another thing today.”
We went inside. The hostess smiled.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” she said.
“We have a few spots left for the holiday menu, if you’re okay with that.”
“That sounds perfect,” Eric said.
They sat us at a small table with a candle. Soft music played. People talked in low voices.
No one was screaming about vegans.
They brought warm rolls and butter. Then salad. Then plates with turkey, potatoes, stuffing, and green beans, all pretty and neat.
I took a bite.
It wasn’t my food.
It wasn’t my grandma’s recipes.
But it was good.
Lily leaned over her plate.
“This is the best Thanksgiving,” she whispered.
Max nodded with his mouth full. “We should come here every year.”
Eric looked at me over the candle.
“I’m writing that down,” he joked.
We ate. We talked.
We shared dessert. At one point, Eric reached across the table, took my hand, and squeezed.
“I’m really sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t get it before.
I kept thinking, ‘It’s just food.’ But it’s not just food. This is your thing. Your love language.
And she stomped all over it.”
My eyes stung.
“I let her get away with little things because she’s my mom,” he said. “I shouldn’t have. I see that now.”
I nodded, because I didn’t trust my voice.
When we got home, we changed into pajamas and watched a movie.
The kids fell asleep halfway through, curled under blankets on the couch. Eric and I sat together in the quiet glow of the TV and the Christmas lights we’d already put up. Continue reading…
