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. – usnews 0/2

Thursday, 7:23 a.m.

Hudson’s perspective.

Hudson Fosters woke up to his alarm with the lazy contentment of someone who had no idea his world was about to implode. He rolled over, expecting to find Isabella’s side of the bed empty as usual on Thanksgiving morning. She was always up before dawn, making magic happen in the kitchen.

But something felt different. The house was too quiet. By 7:00 a.m. on Thanksgiving, the smell of roasting turkey usually filled every room, and the sound of Isabella’s orchestrated chaos in the kitchen served as a comforting soundtrack to his slow morning routine.

Instead, silence.

He padded downstairs in his boxers, expecting to find his wife surrounded by controlled culinary mayhem. Probably looking a bit frazzled, but handling everything with the competent efficiency that had attracted him to her in the first place.

The kitchen was empty. Not just empty of people, empty of activity. The ingredients from yesterday’s prep work sat exactly where Isabella had left them. No turkey in the oven. No pots bubbling on the stove. No evidence that the Thanksgiving marathon had begun.