“It’s going to be good.”
I followed, confused but hopeful. The dining room grew quiet, guests looking puzzled. Forks hesitated.
Keaton frowned, chewing slowly. “This… tastes weird. Too strong?”
Eulalia sipped water, wincing.
“Is the stuffing… salty?”
“Salty?” Fabian grunted, grimacing. “It’s like seawater! What’s in this?”
Briar’s smile wavered, her face pink.
“Oh, really?” she said, voice shaky. “Maybe I overdid the seasoning. I was rushing.” Her laugh was thin, her hands twisting her napkin.
Danica nudged me, whispering, “Try it.”
I tasted the turkey, and my eyes widened. It was so salty it burned. The stuffing was worse—impossible to eat.
I grabbed water, hiding a smile. Danica’s wink told me she’d tampered with Briar’s food. “Well,” I said, dabbing my lips, “that’s… different.”
Danica stifled a giggle, her eyes dancing.
The table turned chaotic. Eulalia set her fork down gently. “Sorry, Briar, I can’t eat this.”
Fabian was blunt.
“Briar, this stuffing could salt a road.”
Briar’s cheeks burned. “I—I don’t know what happened! Maybe the brine?” She looked around, but guests pushed plates away.
I stood, heart pounding but steady. “No worries,” I said, raising my cider glass. “Cooking’s tough.
Let’s toast Briar’s effort.”
Keaton smiled, relieved. “To Briar’s hard work!”
“Absolutely,” I said, smiling sweetly. “And since we’re still hungry, I have a surprise.
I made extra dishes, just in case. They’re in the garage fridge. Keaton, help me?”
Briar’s smile froze.
“You… did?” she stammered, panic flickering. “Yes,” I said, my voice calm but triumphant. “Always good to be prepared.”
Keaton followed me to the garage, where my dishes waited—golden turkey, creamy potatoes, sage stuffing, pecan pie.
“Wow, Mom,” he said, lifting the turkey. “You went all out.”
“Just wanted to be ready,” I said, my heart lifting. We set my dishes on the table, and the guests’ faces brightened.
“This looks wonderful,” Eulalia said, delighted. “Real food at last!” Fabian said, chuckling. Briar sat stiffly, lips tight, her confidence gone.
“You didn’t have to, Ione,” she said, voice strained. “It’s no trouble,” I said, meeting her eyes. “It’s what family does.”
The meal was a joy.
Laughter filled the room, my food sparking stories and smiles. Danica stayed close, her hand brushing mine, her eyes warm with pride. My heart felt full again.
Later, wrapping leftovers, I heard Briar’s heels. She cleared her throat. “Ione, I’m sorry.
I shouldn’t have thrown out your food. I thought mine would be… better. Modern.”
Her words hurt, but her unease softened them.
“I appreciate that, Briar,” I said gently. “Those dishes were my heart. But I’m glad we shared a meal.”
She nodded, flushed, and left.
Apologies weren’t easy for her, and that was enough. Danica appeared, holding pie plates, grinning. “Grandma, you saved Thanksgiving.”
I hugged her, tears welling.
“No, Danica, you did. You stood up for me, and that means everything.”
“Mom won’t forget this,” she said, eyes mischievous. As I turned off the kitchen lights, gratitude warmed me.
The day had stung, but Danica’s fierce love was my true Thanksgiving gift, more precious than any recipe.
