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.

The afternoon dragged by in a blur of chopping, seasoning, and pre-cooking what could be prepared ahead of time. Every surface in the kitchen was covered with dishes in various stages of completion. The refrigerator was so packed I had to play Tetris with containers just to fit everything in.

Around 5:00 p.m., Vivien called.

“Just checking in on the preparations, dear. How are things coming along?”

I looked around at the disaster zone that was my kitchen, at my hands that were raw and bleeding from constant washing and food prep, at the mountain of dishes that had already accumulated.

“Fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

“Wonderful. Oh, and I forgot to mention the Sanders boy has a severe nut allergy. You’ll need to make sure none of the dishes contain any nuts or have been cross-contaminated. It’s a life-threatening situation if there’s any exposure.”

A nut allergy for a six-year-old that she was mentioning now, the day before the dinner, after I’d already prepared three dishes that contained almonds or pecans.

“Which dishes exactly should I—”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re so good at managing these details. See you tomorrow, dear.”

She hung up before I could ask any of the dozen questions that immediately flooded my mind.

I stood in my kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of twelve hours of nonstop work, and felt something crack inside my chest. Not break—that would come later—just crack, like the first fissure in a dam that’s been holding back too much pressure for too long.

That night, Hudson came home smelling like beer and golf course grass, cheerful from his day of freedom while I’d been trapped in preparation hell.

“How’d the cooking go, babe? Everything ready for tomorrow’s marathon session?”

I was sitting at the kitchen table, finally allowing myself to rest for the first time since dawn. My entire body ached and I hadn’t had a real meal all day.

“There’s a problem with the menu,” I said quietly. “Three of the dishes have nuts, and apparently the Sanders boy has a severe allergy.”

Hudson shrugged.

“So make different versions of those dishes. No big deal.”

No big deal. Three completely different dishes requiring entirely new ingredients and preparation time I didn’t have, on top of everything else I was already attempting to accomplish.