The impossible mission. Three days earlier, the sound of Vivien’s heels clicking on our hardwood floors still reminded me of a judge’s gavel: sharp, decisive, final.
She burst into our kitchen as if it belonged to her, which, according to Hudson, it practically did, since they had helped us with the deposit.
“Isabella, darling.” Her voice had that particular tone she used when she was about to assign me a task disguised as a service. “We need to talk about Thanksgiving preparations.”
My elbows were submerged in dishwater after the dinner I’d just served them: Hudson’s favorite pot roast, with all the accompaniments his mother had taught me to make properly during our first year of marriage.
My hands were bleeding from the boiling water, but I’d learned not to wear rubber gloves around Vivien. She’d once remarked that they made me look unprofessional.
“Of course,” I replied, forcing a cheerful tone. “What can I do to help?”
Hudson looked up from his phone just long enough to exchange a glance with his mother. I had seen it thousands of times over the years: a silent communication that completely excluded me.
Vivien rummaged in her designer bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The ceremonial way she did it gave me goosebumps.
She placed it on the counter next to me with the care one takes when presenting evidence in court.
“Here’s the guest list for Thursday,” she announced. “I’ve invited a few more people this year. My cousin Cynthia is coming with her new boyfriend. My uncle Raymond is coming with his whole family, and the Sanders from the country club will be joining us as well.”
I wiped my hands with a dish towel and took the paper. As I unfolded it, the names kept appearing.
I counted once, then twice, certain I’d made a mistake.
“Thirty people.” The words barely came out, like a whisper.
“Thirty-two, actually. Little Timmy Sanders counts as half a person since he’s only six. But you should still plan for thirty full portions. He’s a growing boy and all that.”
Vivien’s laughter was like shattering crystal.
“I know it might seem like a lot, but you’ve gotten so good at organizing these family gatherings. Everyone always raves about your cooking.”
Hudson finally looked up from her phone, but only to nod in agreement.
“You can do it, honey. You always manage.”
I stared at the list, my eyes slightly misty as I tried to understand what was being asked of me.
In previous years, we'd hosted about fifteen people, and even then, I'd start cooking two days in advance, barely sleep, and spend the entire dinner going back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room while everyone else relaxed.
"When did you invite all these people?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
"In the last few weeks," Vivien said casually. "Don't worry about the timing, darling. You'll manage just fine. As always."
"But I didn't shop for thirty people. I didn't plan a menu for—"
"Oh, I took care of the planning." Vivien pulled out another sheet of paper, this time covered in her neat handwriting. "Here's the full menu. I've tweaked a few dishes this year. The Sanders have their traditions, you know?" “
I looked at the menu and felt the room start to spin slightly.
Turkey stuffed three different ways. Pineapple-glazed ham. Seven different sides. Four desserts, including homemade pie crust for the pumpkin pie, because store-bought wouldn't do.
Homemade cranberry sauce. Fresh rolls.
The 4:00 a.m. request
“Vivien, this is… this is a lot for one person to handle.”
She waved her hand as if I'd mentioned something trivial, like a minor weather-related inconvenience.
“Nonsense! You're perfectly capable. And Hudson will be there to help you.”
I looked at my husband, hoping to see some recognition in his eyes that what his mother was asking for was practically impossible.
Instead, he was already back on his phone.
” “I’ll lend a hand, no doubt,” he said without looking up. “I can carve the turkey and open the wine.”
Carve the turkey. Open the wine. That was his idea of the help needed for a meal that would require roughly sixteen hours of active preparation.
“What time should I start cooking?” I asked, even though part of me already knew the answer would be unreasonable.
Vivien checked her expensive watch.
“Dinner should be served at 2:00 p.m. sharp. The Sanders prefer to eat early. I’d say it’s best to start around 4:00 a.m., just to be safe. Maybe 3:30 p.m. if you want everything to be perfect.”
“Four in the morning,” I repeated.
“Start cooking at four in the morning,” she said more firmly this time, handing me the guest list. “And make sure everything is perfect this time.” “
Hudson looked up, but only to emphasize his point.
“Yes, and make sure it’s perfect this time. The stuffing was a little dry last year.”
The stuffing I’d prepared while managing six other dishes simultaneously, while he watched football in the living room.
The stuffing everyone had praised. The stuffing his mother had specifically asked me to make again this year.
“Of course,” I heard myself say. “Of course, I’ll make sure it’s perfect.”
But as I stood there, holding that list of thirty-two names and a menu that would have tested the kitchens of any restaurant, a chill settled in the pit of my stomach.
It wasn’t just the impossibility of the task they’d given me. It was the casual way they'd entrusted it to me, as if my time, my effort, my sanity were resources they could spend without a second thought.
Later that evening, after Vivien had gone home and Hudson had fallen asleep, I sat at the kitchen table with a calculator, trying to work out the logistics.
The turkey would have to go in the oven at 6:00 a.m. to be ready by 2:00 p.m., but I'd need the oven space for other dishes.
The calculations were wrong. The timing was impossible.
I found myself staring at the guest list, really looking at it for the first time. Thirty-two people, but my name wasn't on it.
I was cooking for thirty-two people, and I wasn't even considered a guest at the dinner I was preparing.
The Unwanted Cousin
That's when I noticed something else. Hudson's cousin, Ruby, wasn't on the list. Ruby, who had been celebrating Thanksgiving with the family for years. Ruby, who had recently divorced and was going through a difficult time.
I picked up my phone and called her.
"Isabella, it's late. Is everything alright?"
"I was wondering... are you coming for Thanksgiving this year?"
There was a long silence.
"Well, Vivien called last week." She told me that, since I'm single and going through a rough patch, it might be better if I spent the holidays somewhere more appropriate for my situation. She suggested I might be more comfortable in a more intimate setting.
My grip on the phone tightened.
"She uninvited you?"
"She didn't put it that way, but yes, I suppose that's what she said."
Ruby had been part of the family for eight years. But as soon as her life became complicated, as soon as she started needing support instead of being a source of entertainment, Vivien crossed her off the list.
After hanging up, I sat for a long time in the darkened kitchen. The list of names blurred before my eyes as the tears I'd been holding back for hours finally began to flow.
But these weren't just tears of frustration at the impossible task ahead. They were tears of gratitude, because I saw myself in Ruby's situation.
I saw what happened when you stopped being useful to Vivien. When you stopped being the perfect daughter-in-law, capable of organizing impossible dinner parties without ever complaining.
When you became more of a burden than a resource.
I was on the verge of being banished from my own life after just one bad Thanksgiving.
The Breaking Point
Tuesday morning, 6 a.m. The supermarket was a wasteland of fluorescent lights and empty aisles.
I'd been there since it opened, my cart overflowing with ingredients for a meal that seemed increasingly impossible to prepare with each new item.
I added three turkeys, two hams, and kilos and kilos of vegetables that I would have to prep, chop, and cook until they were perfectly cooked.
The total bill made my hands tremble as I swiped our credit card, knowing Hudson would see the transaction later and probably comment on it.
Mrs. Suzanne, my neighbor, was in line behind me with a single bag of coffee and a few muffins.
"Are you having a big dinner party this year?" she asked, glancing anxiously at my overflowing cart.
"Thanksgiving for 32," I replied, trying to sound casual.
Her eyes widened.
“Thirty-two? All alone?”
“My husband will help,” I said mechanically, even though the words tasted like a lie.
She looked at me for a long moment, and I could see pity creeping into her expression.
“Honey, that’s not help. That’s like watching someone drown from the dock.”
Her words followed me home and echoed in my head as I began the preparations.
I arranged the ingredients across every available space on the countertop, transforming our kitchen into something more like a commercial food preparation facility than a home.
By noon, I had been working for six hours straight and had accomplished almost nothing.
My back ached, my feet were killing me, and I hadn't eaten anything but a handful of cookies.
That's when Hudson walked into the kitchen, still in his pajamas, his coffee mug in hand.
"Wow, you guys really went all out this year," he said, surveying the chaos. "It already smells good."
My elbows were buried in turkey stuffing, my hands covered in a mixture of breadcrumbs, celery, and raw egg.
"Can you help me get this stuff into the bird? I can't manage it on my own."
He glanced at his watch.
"Actually, I promised the guys I'd meet up for a round of golf. A pre-holiday tradition, you know. But I'll be back in plenty of time to help out with the heavy lifting tomorrow."
I stared at him.
"Golf today?" “Just nine holes, maybe eighteen if we’re ahead of schedule. You know how it is.”
He was already heading for the door.
“Anyway, you’ve got this completely under control. You’re a machine when it comes to this kind of thing.”
Like a machine.
Those words hurt more than they should have. Machines don’t get tired. Machines don’t need help. Machines don’t have feelings that can be affected by casual disdain.
He was gone before I could reply, leaving me alone with food for thirty-two people and the growing realization that I was invisible in my own home.
The casually mentioned, potentially life-threatening allergy.
The afternoon slipped by in a whirlwind of chopping, seasoning, and pre-cooking whatever could be done ahead of time.
Every surface in the kitchen was covered in dishes in various stages of preparation. The refrigerator was so full I had to play Tetris with the boxes to fit everything in.
Around 5 p.m., Vivien called.
"I just wanted to check in on the preparations, darling. How's it going?"
I glanced around: my kitchen was a complete disaster zone, my hands were raw and bleeding from washing and preparing meals, and the mountain of dishes had already piled up.
"Great," I said. "Everything's fine."
"Fantastic. Oh, and I forgot to mention that Sanders' son has a severe nut allergy. You'll need to make sure that no dishes contain nuts or have been contaminated. Any exposure, even minimal, can be fatal." "
A nut allergy for a six-year-old, which she mentioned the night before dinner, even though I had already prepared three dishes containing almonds or pecans.
"Which dishes exactly should I…"
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
