I thought the worst thing my mother-in-law had ever done was put a turkey leg in her purse on Thanksgiving. This year, she walked into my house in heels, took my entire Thanksgiving dinner, and somehow managed to blame me for what happened next.
I’m the kind of person who looks forward to Thanksgiving like children look forward to Christmas.
Every year, on the Friday before Thanksgiving, I take out my grandmother’s recipe cards.
Some people get excited about summer or their birthdays. I get excited about turkey and mashed potatoes.
Every year, on the Friday before Thanksgiving, I take out my grandmother’s recipes. They’re yellowed, folded, and stained with grease, and her handwriting slants slightly to the right. Just looking at them warms my heart.
I buy real butter. None of the cheap stuff.
I roast garlic for the mashed potatoes until the whole house smells like an Italian restaurant. I brine the turkey for twenty-four hours as if I want to impress the Food Network judges. I bake the pies the night before so they’re perfectly cooked.
Thanksgiving is my joy. My connection to my grandmother. My comfort.
The first time, she took a tray of filling.
My mother-in-law, Elaine?
For her, Thanksgiving is a photo shoot.
She loves designer heels. Salon hairstyles. Filters. The new boyfriend she’s dating this season. She’s never cooked a proper meal in her life, unless you count microwave meals.
For some years now, he has had the lovely habit of “dropping by” before dinner and leaving with my food.
The first time, she took a tray of filling.
“Honey, you’ve done so much,” she told me, already wrapping it in aluminum foil. “You won’t even miss it.”
Last year, she put a turkey leg in her handbag.
The following year, it was a whole pumpkin pie.
“The girls in the book club will be dying for this,” she said, already halfway to the door.
Last year, she put a turkey leg in her handbag.
“A turkey leg,” he said. “You won’t even notice.”
Eric, my husband, would get angry for about five minutes and then say, “It’s just food, honey, just leave it. That’s just how she is.”
So I let it go. But I never forgot it.
This year, I decided my Thanksgiving was going to be perfect.
Tuesday’s menu included cakes, stews, and sweet potato puree.
I started on Monday.
Monday was pie crust and pumpkin puree. Flour on my shirt, flour in my hair. My grandmother’s sunflower apron tied around my waist.
Tuesday’s meal was pies, stews, and sweet potato mash. I put on some 90s music and sang along with the blender. My daughter Lily danced around me while my son Max pretended to be “too cool” but kept stealing spoonfuls of filling.
On Wednesday I spent my time chopping, slicing, brining, and marinating the turkey. I washed a container to put the turkey and the brine in. The turkey looked like it was having a spa day.
On Thursday morning, I could have fallen asleep from exhaustion, but the house smelled heavenly.
By 4 pm, everything was done.
Butter. Garlic. Herbs. Roast turkey.
The turkey was in the oven at 8:00 a.m. sharp. I made mashed potatoes with roasted garlic and heavy cream. I whisked the sauce until my wrist hurt.
By 4 pm, everything was done.
The table looked like it came straight out of a HomeGoods ad. White tablecloth. Cloth napkins. Nice plates. Little cards with everyone’s names that Lily had drawn with colored pencils and tiny turkeys.
I stood there, taking it all in, and felt that deep, warm satisfaction you feel when your hard work actually looks the way you imagined.
Eric came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and rested his chin on my shoulder.
For a moment, everything seemed perfect to me.
“You’ve outdone yourself this year, baby,” he whispered.
For a moment, everything was perfect.
We called the children.
“Wash your hands, put your butts in the chairs!” I yelled.
They were really excited, which, if you have kids, you know is rare.
We all sat down.
I picked up the fork.
“My new man is expecting a home-cooked dinner.”
And that’s when the front door slammed open so hard that my fork bounced off the plate.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Elaine’s voice echoed throughout the house.
She walked in like she owned the place. Red lipstick. Freshly made up. Tight dress. High heels clicking like a horse trotting down my hallway.
My stomach tightened.
“Elaine?” I said. “What are you…?”
He didn’t answer.
He was already lifting the turkey off the table.
She came straight from the dining room to my kitchen. She opened the cupboard, took out the brand-new Tupperware set she’d bought for leftovers, and started sorting the containers as if she’d been planning it all week.
“Mom?” Eric said, getting up. “What are you doing?”
She was already lifting the turkey off the table.
“I need it,” she said, as if it were obvious. “My new man is expecting a home-cooked dinner. I haven’t had time. The salon is running late.”
She said “salon” as if it were a medical emergency.
I stared at her.
“Don’t be stingy.”
“Elaine, stop,” I said. “We’re about to eat. It’s our dinner.”
She rolled her eyes and began stuffing a large container.
“Don’t be stingy,” she said. “You have more than enough. You’re very good at this. Share the wealth.”
I felt my face getting hot.
“Mom, what the hell?” Eric blurted out. “Give it back.”
“They’ll have something left,” he said. “Look at all this. You don’t need it all.”
Next, she had the mashed potatoes. Then the gravy. Then the green bean casserole. The cranberry sauce. Macaroni and cheese. Cornbread.
“Leave the turkey alone.”
Lily whispered, “Mom?” from the table.
Max stared, his eyes enormous.
I followed Elaine to the kitchen.
“Elaine, that’s enough,” I said, stepping between her and the stove. “Leave the turkey alone. You can’t take all our dinner.”
He stood motionless for a second and gave me a fake, tense smile.
“Darling,” she said, her voice gentle. “You should be grateful that people admire your cooking. It’s a compliment.”
“Stop. You’re taking everything.”
“This is a robbery,” I said.
She shrugged, picked up the turkey anyway, and put it in the larger 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 so dramatic,” she said. “You’re not five years old. You don’t need a big, fancy dinner to feel loved.”
He fitted the lids together. Each click sounded like a door slamming shut.
She stacked the containers in shopping bags she had brought.
She left with my entire Thanksgiving dinner.
I had planned it.
She carried the bags to the front door. We followed her like bewildered ducks. She opened the trunk, put everything inside, and turned around, smiling.
“You should be grateful,” she told me. “This means your food is in demand.”
Then he got in the car, closed the door, and drove off with my entire Thanksgiving dinner.
The house fell silent.
The table was still set. The candles were lit. The napkins were folded. The plates were empty.
I went back to the kitchen and grabbed the counter with both hands.
“I’ve spent four days on that.”
My body trembled.
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.
“Baby… don’t cry,” he whispered.
I let out a high-pitched laugh that sounded more like a sob.
“I’ve spent four days on it,” I said. “Four days. She just… took it.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
We had pizza in the freezer.
The children were fluttering around the door.
“Aren’t we going to celebrate Thanksgiving?” Max asked quietly.
My heart broke a little.
“We’ll still celebrate Thanksgiving,” I said, forcing my voice to sound cheerful. “It’ll just look different.”
We had pizza in the freezer.
I took it out, still trembling, and turned on the oven.
Lily tugged at my sleeve.
We ate frozen pizza on my Thanksgiving table, carefully set.
“Why did Grandma take our food?” he asked.
Because he’s selfish. Because he thinks everything belongs to him. Because no one has ever told him no.
“Sometimes,” I said instead, “people worry more about themselves than about others. But that’s their problem. Not yours.”
We ate frozen pizza at my Thanksgiving table, which was carefully set. Candles. Place cards. Cloth napkins. And a greasy cardboard box in the center.
I tried to make jokes. The kids giggled a little. Eric kept saying, “This is temporary, okay? We’ll fix it.”
Inside, I felt empty.
“You’ve ruined everything!”
After dinner, the kids went to play video games. I was loading the dishwasher with our pizza-stained dishes when Eric’s phone started ringing on the counter.
He checked the screen.
“It’s her,” he said emphatically.
I took a deep breath.
“Put it on speakerphone,” I told him.
He put it on.
“Hello?” he replied.
“HOW COULD YOU LET ME DO THIS?!”
“ERIC!!!”
We both jumped. Elaine’s voice shrieked 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’ve ruined everything!”
I frowned. “What?”
“Your dinner,” he shouted. “Your perfect Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Whose dinner?” Eric asked. “Your boyfriend’s?”
“He looked at me as if I had brought a corpse home!”
“Yes!” she said. “And now he thinks I’m crazy! He thinks I lied to him.”
I raised my eyebrows. I wonder why.
“What happened?” Eric said, too calmly.
Elaine let out a dramatic sigh.
“It’s vegan!” she shouted.
Eric blinked. “What?”
“A vegan, Eric!” she yelled. “I’d completely forgotten! I showed up with a whole turkey. All spreadable. Meat, butter, cheese, everything! She looked at me like I’d brought a dead body home.”
He said I was disrespectful.
I covered my mouth with my hand to keep from laughing.
“And then,” he continued, “I was carrying your wife’s stupid turkey to the table when the bottom of the dish gave way. It exploded! There was turkey juice all over the floor. The dog was licking the gravy off my shoes. I slipped in the mashed potatoes.”
I lost control. I started laughing silently, with tears running down my face.
Eric bit his lip.
“And then,” she said, her voice trembling, “he looks at me and says, ‘Elaine, you know I’m vegan.’ As if I hadn’t spent weeks listening to him talk about tofu. He said I was disrespectful. DISRESPECTFUL.”
“And then he told me to leave!”
Eric finally said, “Let me see if I understand this. You stole our entire Thanksgiving, tried to pass it off as your own, forgot it was vegan, and then threw it all over his floor.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds bad,” she snapped.
“How else can it be said?” he asked.
“And then he told me to leave!” she lamented. “He said not to call him again until I ‘learned to be true to myself.’ He broke up with me on Thanksgiving Day. In front of his friends.”
Silence.
“He set a trap for me!”
Then she added, furiously: “This is all your fault!”
“My… fault?” I said before I could stop myself.
“Yes, YOU,” she shouted. “If you didn’t cook so much, he would have thought I did it! If you weren’t so boastful in the kitchen, he wouldn’t have needed to take it. You set me up.”
And he hung up.
The call ended with a beep.
Eric and I stared at each other for a second.
“He really said it’s your fault.”
Then we both burst into hysterical laughter.
We slid through the closets and sat on the floor, laughing until our sides ached. Not because it was funny. Because it was all so insane that our brains didn’t know what else to do.
When we finally calmed down, Eric dried his eyes.
“He really said it’s your fault,” she said.
“Of course she said it,” I said. “She’s living a lie.”
Her face changed. It went from fun to exhaustion.
“We’re going out.”
“I’m tired of it,” he said quietly. “I’m fed up with making excuses for her.”
He stood up and held out his hand to her.
“Come on,” she said. “Shoes. Children. Find your shoes. We’re going out.”
“Go out where?” I asked him.
“You’ll see,” he said.
We put the children’s coats on and got into the car.
He drove downtown. Most places were closed and dark, but at one restaurant, warm lights were still shining, and there was a small sign that read: “Thanksgiving.”
“And today you’re not going to cook anything else.”
“Eric, this place is elegant,” I said.
“You too,” he said. “And you’re not cooking anything else today.”
We went in. The hostess smiled.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said. “We have a few spots left for the holiday menu, if that works for you.”
“That sounds perfect to me,” Eric said.
We were seated at a small table with a candle. Soft music was playing. People were speaking in hushed tones. No one was shouting about vegans.
They brought warm rolls and butter. Then salad. Then plates with turkey, potatoes, stuffing, and green beans, all nicely arranged.
“We should come here every year.”
I tried a bite.
It wasn’t my food. It wasn’t my grandmother’s recipes.
But it was good.
Lily leaned over her plate.
“This is the best Thanksgiving ever,” she whispered.
Max nodded with his mouth full. “We should come here every year.”
Eric looked at me over the candle.
“I didn’t understand it before.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” he joked.
We ate. We talked. We shared dessert. At one point, Eric crossed the table, took my hand, and squeezed it.
“I’m so sorry,” he said gently. “I didn’t understand before. I kept thinking, ‘It’s just food.’ But it’s not just food. It’s something of yours. Your love language. And she trampled on it.”
My eyes were burning.
“I let her get away with little things because she’s my mother,” she said. “I shouldn’t have. Now I see it.”
I nodded, because I didn’t trust my own voice.
I wasn’t going to play along anymore.
When we got home, we put on our pajamas and watched a movie. The children fell asleep halfway through, snuggled under the blankets on the sofa. Eric and I sat together in the calm glow of the television and the Christmas lights we had already put up.
My Thanksgiving was not what I had planned.
But somewhere between the frozen pizza, the phone call, and the candlelit restaurant table, something changed.
I wasn’t going to play along anymore.
The next two weeks were quiet.
No surprise visits. No passive-aggressive messages.
“You owe me an apology.”
Then one morning, while I was preparing school lunches, my phone buzzed.
It was a message from Elaine.
“You owe me an apology,” he said.
I stared at him for ten seconds.
“Eric?” I called.
He went into the kitchen.
“What’s happening?”.
“What do you want to do?”.
I gave him the phone.
He read it, sighed, and gave me a look that said he was very, very fed up.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
I took a deep breath.
“I’m done,” I said. “I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to see her. Not until she understands what she’s done and apologizes like an adult.”
He nodded.
“And if he shows up around here, I’ll take care of him.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said.
He took my phone, blocked his number, and gave it back to me.
“I’ve already blocked her on mine,” he said. “And if she shows up here, I’ll deal with it. Not you.”
Christmas Eve arrived.
We stayed home. Just us.
I made hot cocoa on the stove, the old-fashioned way, with real milk and cocoa powder. I topped it with whipped cream and sprinkled it with a little cinnamon.
“And you always give.”
We snuggled up on the sofa with blankets and watched “The Grinch.” The kids argued about which version was better. The Christmas tree lights reflected in the window. It started snowing outside.
Halfway through the movie, Eric squeezed my hand.
“You know?” he said, “Mom always gets laid.”
I looked at him.
“And you always give,” she said. “You give time, food, your energy, your patience. This year you gave us Thanksgiving. She stole it. But karma gave it back to you.”
“It’s time to stop pretending she’s just ‘a little bit exaggerated’.”
He smiled a little.
“I hate that it happened,” she said, “but I’m glad I finally saw it. I really am. No more pretending she’s just ‘a little over the top’.”
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles.
“Next year,” he said, “Thanksgiving will be just us. Whatever you want. We go out, we stay in, you have a feast, we order Chinese food, I don’t care. But your cooking? Your effort? That’s only for the people who deserve it.”
I leaned towards him and watched our children laughing at the TV.
This Thanksgiving, I learned something I didn’t expect.
This Thanksgiving, I learned something I didn’t expect.
Some people believe that taking things from others makes them powerful. As if they win if they take away what you love.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—tastes better than seeing how karma pays you back.
With sauce on top.
If this happened to you, what would you do? We’d love to hear your thoughts in the Facebook comments.
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