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.

I looked at the menu and felt the room start to spin slightly. Turkey with three different stuffings. Ham with pineapple glaze. Seven different side dishes. Four desserts, including a homemade pie crust for the pumpkin pie because store-bought just wouldn’t do. Homemade cranberry sauce. Fresh bread rolls.

“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 inconvenience with the weather.

“Nonsense. You’re perfectly capable. Besides, Hudson will be there to help.”

I looked at my husband, hoping to see some recognition in his eyes that what his mother was asking bordered on impossible. Instead, he was already back to scrolling through his phone.

“I’ll definitely help out,” he said without looking up. “I can carve the turkey and open wine bottles.”

Carve the turkey. Open wine bottles. That was his idea of help for a meal that would require approximately sixteen hours of active cooking time.

“What time should I start cooking?” I asked, though part of me already knew the answer would be unreasonable.

Vivien checked her expensive watch.

“Well, dinner should be served at 2 p.m. sharp. The Sanders prefer to eat early. I’d say you should start around 4:00 a.m. to be safe. Maybe 3:30 if you want everything to be perfect.”

“Four a.m.,” 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 then, but only to add his own emphasis.

“Yeah, and make sure everything is perfect this time. The stuffing was a little dry last year.”

The stuffing that I’d made while simultaneously managing six other dishes while he watched football in the living room. The stuffing that everyone else had complimented. The stuffing that his mother had specifically requested I make again this year.

“Of course,” I heard myself say. “Of course, I’ll make sure everything’s perfect.”

But as I stood there holding that list of thirty-two names and a menu that would challenge a restaurant kitchen, something cold settled in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t just the impossibility of the task they’d assigned me. It was the casual way they’d assigned it, as if my time, my effort, my sanity were commodities they could spend without consideration.