My mother-in-law told me to get up at 4 a.m. to cook Thanksgiving dinner for her 30 guests. My husband added, “This time, remember to make everything really perfect!” I smiled and replied, “Of course.” At 3 a.m., I took my suitcase to the airport.

“Of course,” I replied, forcing brightness into my voice. “What can I do to help?”

Hudson looked up from his phone long enough to share a glance with his mother. I’d seen it thousands of times over the years, a silent communication that excluded me entirely, as if I were a child who couldn’t be trusted with adult conversations.

Vivien reached into her designer purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The way she handled it with such ceremony made my stomach twist into knots. She placed it on the counter next to me with the care of someone presenting evidence in court.

“The guest list for Thursday,” she announced. “I’ve invited a few more people this year. Cousin Cynthia is bringing her new boyfriend. Uncle Raymond is coming with his whole family, and the Sanders from the country club will be joining us as well.”

I dried my hands on a dish towel and picked up the paper. As I unfolded it, the names kept coming and coming. I counted once, then twice, certain I’d made a mistake.

“Thirty people.” The words came out as barely a whisper.

“Thirty-two, actually. Little Timmy Sanders counts as a half person since he’s only six. But you should still prepare for thirty full portions. Growing boy and all that.” Vivien’s laugh was like crystal breaking.

“I know it seems like a lot, but you’ve gotten so good at hosting these family events. Everyone always raves about your cooking.”

Hudson finally looked up from his phone, but only to nod in agreement.

“You got this, babe. You always pull it off.”

I stared at the list, my eyes blurring slightly as I tried to process what they were asking. In previous years, we’d hosted maybe fifteen people, and even that had meant I’d started cooking two days in advance, barely slept, and spent the entire dinner running back and forth between the kitchen and dining room while everyone else relaxed.

“When did you invite all these people?” I asked, my voice smaller than I intended.

“Over the past few weeks,” Vivien said dismissively. “Don’t worry about the timing, dear. You’ll manage just fine. You always do.”

“But I haven’t bought groceries for thirty people. I haven’t planned a menu for—”

“Oh, I took care of the planning part.” Vivien pulled out chafar another piece of paper, this one covered in her precise handwriting. “Here’s the complete menu. I’ve upgraded a few things this year. The Sanders are used to a certain standard, you understand?”