Later that night, after Vivien had gone home and Hudson had fallen asleep, I sat at our kitchen table with a calculator, trying to figure out the logistics. The turkey alone would need 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 math didn’t work. 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.
That’s when I noticed something else. Hudson’s cousin Ruby wasn’t on the list. Ruby, who had been coming to family Thanksgiving for years. Ruby, who had recently gotten divorced and was having a hard time.
I picked up my phone and called her.
“Isabella, it’s kind of late. Is everything okay?”
“I was just wondering… are you coming to Thanksgiving this year?”
There was a long pause.
“Well, Vivien called last week. She said that since I’m single now and going through such a difficult time, maybe it would be better if I spent the holiday somewhere more appropriate for my situation. She suggested I might be more comfortable at a smaller gathering.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“She uninvited you?”
“She didn’t put it that way, but yes, I guess she did.”
Ruby had been family for eight years. But the moment her life became messy, the moment she might need support instead of being able to provide entertainment value, Vivien had cut her from the list.
After I hung up, I sat in the dark kitchen for a long time. The list of names blurred in front of me as tears I’d been holding back for hours finally came. But they weren’t just tears of frustration about the impossible task ahead of me. They were tears of recognition, 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 who could pull off impossible dinners and never complain. When you became more trouble than you were worth.
I was one bad Thanksgiving away from being uninvited from my own life.
Tuesday morning, the grocery store at 6 a.m. was a wasteland of fluorescent lights and empty aisles. I’d been there since opening, my cart overflowing with ingredients for a meal that seemed more impossible with each item. I added three turkeys, two hams, pounds upon pounds of vegetables that I’d need to prep, chop, and cook into submission.
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