I had been looking forward to Thanksgiving all year. Not because of the turkey or the parade or even the pie, though those certainly didn’t hurt, but because of the peace. For once, it was going to be quiet.
My parents had gone on a cruise to escape the November chill, my sister had flown to Vermont with her girlfriend, and my in-laws had decided to spend the holiday with cousins in Michigan. That left just me, my husband, and our eight-year-old daughter. A small, cozy meal in our dining room, fire in the fireplace, maybe board games after.
I’d already planned the menu—one modest turkey breast instead of a full bird, mashed potatoes, roasted Brussels sprouts, and a pumpkin pie with a ginger-snap crust. Simple. Manageable.
Serene. At least, that’s what I thought. The first sign of trouble came on Tuesday before Thanksgiving.
My husband, who worked as a project manager for a mid-sized tech company, came home unusually buoyant. He kissed me on the cheek, dropped his bag by the door, and announced, “You’re not going to believe how excited everyone is for Thanksgiving this year.”
I hummed absentmindedly, chopping carrots for dinner. “I imagine most people are.”
“No, I mean really excited.
Like, over-the-moon excited.” He leaned against the counter, grinning as though he’d just pulled off a coup. Something about that smile made my stomach tighten. “Why are your coworkers’ holiday plans relevant to us?”
He hesitated a fraction of a second too long.
“Well,” he began, dragging the word out like a child about to admit to breaking a vase, “funny story… they don’t really have any plans. So, I thought—hey, we’ve got plenty of space, and Thanksgiving is all about togetherness, right?—why not invite them over?”
My knife froze mid-chop. “Invite who over?”
“Just a few people from the office,” he said breezily, as if he were suggesting we pick up extra napkins.
“How many is ‘a few’?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated by the tile floor. “Fifteen?”
I turned slowly, the carrot still in my hand like a makeshift dagger. “Fifteen people?
You invited fifteen coworkers to our Thanksgiving dinner without asking me?”
He raised his hands defensively. “I thought you’d be thrilled! You love hosting!”
“I love hosting when I’ve actually planned for it.
When I have more than two days’ notice. When the guest list doesn’t multiply like rabbits.”
“They were so excited,” he said weakly. “I couldn’t say no.”
I stared at him, trying to decide whether to scream, laugh, or cry.
“So instead you volunteered me to handle it?”
He offered a sheepish shrug, as if that might soften the blow. And that’s when I decided: fine. If he wanted to surprise me with fifteen unexpected guests, then he was going to get a surprise right back.
My revenge would be subtle, elegant, and—most importantly—delicious. The next two days were a whirlwind. I scrapped my modest menu and drew up a new plan.
If we were going to host a crowd, I’d need reinforcements. I ordered two massive turkeys from the butcher, along with enough potatoes, cranberries, and green beans to feed an army. But I didn’t stop there.
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