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’d always wanted to go to Hawaii, but Hudson preferred destinations with good golf courses and business networking opportunities.

“Hawaii is just beaches and tourist traps,” he’d always said. “What would we do there all day?”

I clicked on the listing before I could talk myself out of it. The flight departed at 4:15 a.m., almost exactly the time I was supposed to start cooking. The price was high, much higher than Hudson would ever approve of for a spontaneous vacation. But it was our money too. Our joint account that I’d contributed to just as much as he had, even though he made more, and somehow that gave him veto power over major purchases.

I stared at the booking screen for a long time, my finger hovering over the “select flight” button.

What kind of person abandons thirty-two people on Thanksgiving?

But another voice in my head, quieter but somehow stronger, asked, What kind of person expects one individual to handle thirty-two people’s dinner with no help?

I thought about Ruby, uninvited from a family she’d been part of for eight years because her divorce made her inconvenient. I thought about Hudson dismissing my requests for help like they were unreasonable demands instead of desperate pleas. I thought about Vivien casually mentioning a life-threatening allergy the day before the dinner, as if my ability to completely restructure the menu overnight was a given.

I thought about who I used to be before I became the person who always said yes, who always made it work, who always apologized for not being perfect enough.

Before I could change my mind, I clicked “select flight.”

The next screen asked for passenger information. I typed in my name, my birth date, my information. Just mine. A party of one.

There was something powerful about seeing my name on that booking form all by itself. Isabella Fosters. Not Hudson’s wife. Not Vivien’s daughter-in-law. Just me.

I entered our credit card information and clicked “book now” before I could think too hard about what I was doing.

The confirmation email arrived immediately. Flight 442 to Maui, departing 4:15 a.m., gate B12. Check-in recommended two hours prior, which meant I needed to leave for the airport at 1:30 a.m.