Thanksgiving has always been my domain. I’m not saying I’m Martha Stewart in any way, but the turkey? That’s my masterpiece.

So when Jake, my husband of six years, announced he’d be taking the reins this year, I was caught off guard.

“This year, I’m cooking the turkey,” he declared over dinner one night, his tone brimming with confidence.

“I’ve got a secret recipe, Jen…”

I smiled at him, though something about the way he said secret made my stomach do a little flip.

“Alright,” I said, keeping my tone light. “I’ll put my feet up, maybe do my nails. Just let me know if you need any help.”

“I won’t,” he shot back quickly.

Too quickly.

“This is going to be special.”

Jake’s always been eager to impress. At work, with his friends, his mother — especially his mother. And Patricia’s the type of woman who finds fault in compliments. She’d call the Mona Lisa “a little boring.”

“I’ve got it under control,” he chirped.

Patricia, perched at the counter with her ever-present glass of wine, raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Jen, are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked me, her voice dripping with faux concern. “You’ve always done the turkey so well.”

“It’ll be fine,” I muttered, more to myself than to her.

Hours later, Jake emerged from the kitchen with our Thanksgiving centerpiece. To his credit, it looked perfect. Golden-brown, glistening, straight out of a food magazine or blog. He had even made roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and a thick gravy.

My mom clapped enthusiastically. Patricia tilted her head, inspecting it like a jeweler appraising a diamond.

“It smells amazing!” my mom gushed.

We gathered around the table, Jake beaming as he carved the first slice. Music was being played, plates were passed, and soon everyone had a helping. I cut into mine, ready to be caught off guard by the delicious meal.

“What the…?” I coughed, reaching for my water.

It wasn’t savory. It wasn’t even remotely turkey-like. It was sweet. Sickeningly, cloyingly sweet, like someone had glazed it with melted candy or something.

“Jake,” I managed, staring at him in disbelief. “What is this?”

Patricia, mid-chew, spat hers into a napkin with dramatic flair.

“Oh, Jake. Oh no.”

Jake’s face flushed red.

“It’s a glaze!” he said defensively. “Brown sugar, maple syrup, and marshmallow fluff. It’s different! It’s creative!”

“Creative?” I echoed. “It tastes like someone dropped a turkey in a vat of something at Willy Wonka’s factory.”

The room fell silent. My brother-in-law, Steven, stifled a laugh. My mom pretended to focus on her mashed potatoes. Patricia, never one to miss an opportunity, shook her head with a dramatic sigh.

“This is why we don’t mess with tradition, Jake. Since you got married, Jen’s been the turkey girl. Tradition, Jake. Tradition.”

Later, after most of our guests had shuffled home and Jake had retreated to the den to lick his wounds, I stayed behind to clean the kitchen.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” I said. “You chill in there, and I’ll be with you soon. I stashed a pumpkin pie earlier, because I know we like it with cold whipped cream.”

I was trying to be nice. To help him realize that it had been a mistake, and nothing was wrong with that.

My heart sped up when I saw the name at the bottom of the page.

Sarah.

Sarah. Jake’s ex-wife.

My hands trembled as I stared at the card. Of all the people Jake could have gone to for a recipe — Google searches included — why on earth would he choose her? My mind worked overtime, trying to connect dots I didn’t want to see.

I stormed into the living room, holding the recipe card like evidence. Jake looked up from his football game rerun, his face draining of color.

“Care to explain this?” I asked, my voice colder than I intended.

Jake sat up straighter.

“I… uh… I just wanted to make something special, Jen. Sarah worked as a cook for a while, when she was into catering. And I thought she’d… you know… have some good ideas for me.”

Jake’s mouth opened, then closed. For once, he had no response.

“I just… I didn’t want to mess up,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re so good at it, and I thought if I asked, you’d take over. I wanted to prove that I could do it all on my own.”

“And you couldn’t just ask me for a little help?” I snapped. “Not even for my suggestions? Instead, you went to your ex-wife?”

Jake winced.

“No?” I shot back. “Then what was it like?”

As I lay staring at the ceiling that night, my mind wouldn’t stop spiraling. Jake’s explanation felt weak. If he was too insecure to ask for my help with a turkey, what did that say about our relationship?

And Sarah?

Why her?

Was she really his best option, or was something else behind it? I mean, if I’m being honest, people always say you remember your first love forever.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m really sorry, love. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to impress everyone, and I… I messed up royally.”

I nodded, keeping calm and collected, as I had instructed myself all night. I could barely sleep with my mind running through the possibilities.

“I understand wanting to impress people, Jake. But here’s the thing — next time you want advice, like good, solid advice, maybe start with the person you married. And for the record? Sarah sabotaged you. This recipe? Unless it was for some sickly sweet cereal treat, it was revenge, plain and simple.”

“You think…”

“Oh, I don’t think, Jake,” I said firmly. “I know.”

He groaned, sinking into the nearest chair.

“Goodness, I’m such an idiot.”

Jake couldn’t seem to meet my eyes for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend. He apologized again, twice, but it didn’t erase the lingering doubt. I kept replaying the moment I found that recipe card and the look on his face when I confronted him.

“Well, at least he learned his lesson,” she remarked with a smug sip of her wine.

Jake had decided to take our dog for a walk, leaving Patricia and me alone, dissecting the entire turkey fiasco.

“Do you really think he went to her for help?” I asked my mother-in-law. “That there is nothing else going on?”

“Darling, Sarah cheated on him. She broke his little heart, so it can’t be anything more. I think our foolish man just wanted to impress the women in his life, so he reached out to the only other one he knew well.”

“Jen, he adores you. He’s just a bit stupid sometimes. But if you think that a bigger and more important conversation needs to be had, then go ahead, darling. Do it.”

I nodded.

By Sunday night, I was exhausted — emotionally, mentally, physically. That Thanksgiving turkey didn’t just leave a bad taste in my mouth. It left cracks in something I thought was solid.

For now, I’m still here. But I can’t shake the feeling that something shifted this Thanksgiving, and once things crack, it’s hard to piece them back together again.

What would you have done?

If you’ve enjoyed this story, here’s another one for you |

At Christmas Dinner, My Daughter Stood up and Shouted, ‘And Where’s the Man Mom Keeps in Our Basement?’

Christmas dinner was supposed to be perfect this year. My wife, Ivy, had spent weeks transforming our home into a holiday wonderland, from garlands framing the doorways to twinkling white lights strung across the windows.

Our 8-year-old daughter, Daphne, had helped set the table, her chaotic but charming touch evident in the mismatched napkin folds and slightly tilted name cards.

Until Daphne destroyed it all.

I was mid-slice into the turkey, the knife gliding through the golden, crispy skin, when Daphne climbed onto her chair.

Read the full story here.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.