When my six-year-old son, Jamie, asked if we could save a seat at Thanksgiving dinner for “the man who always brings Mommy flowers,” I chuckled, thinking it was just a child’s imagination at play. But then I saw my wife Megan’s face—frozen, pale, and far too quiet. In that moment, I knew there was more to the story.
And I wasn’t about to let it go. Thanksgiving has always meant warmth, tradition, and a sense of home for me. Growing up, my mother made it a grand event—she’d fill the house with delicious food, loud relatives, and laughter that spilled into the next day.
Those memories have never left me. So when I married Claire, I knew I wanted to carry on that tradition. For the past seven years, Claire and I have hosted Thanksgiving at our home, and while it’s been chaotic, it’s also been the kind of chaos that fills your heart.
Claire would cook her heart out, I’d handle the setup, and our six-year-old son, Jamie, would bounce around the kitchen like a ping-pong ball. But this year, we kept it simple. No cousins, no extended family.
Just the three of us. We didn’t have the budget or the energy to go all out—and frankly, I’d been stretched thin between work and trying to secure a promotion that never seemed to materialize. I’d missed bedtime stories, soccer practices, and Saturday pancakes—all the little things that matter.
So when Claire suggested a quiet Thanksgiving, I agreed, thinking it would be a good way to reconnect. A few days before Thanksgiving, we were doing a dry run of the meal prep. Jamie was circling the kitchen table like a spaceship on re-entry, and I was helping Claire inventory the ingredients.
That’s when Jamie stopped, turned to us, and asked a question that landed like a bomb. “Can we save a seat for the man who always brings Mommy flowers?”
I nearly dropped the mixing bowl I was holding. Claire froze, too, plates in hand, eyes locked on Jamie like she’d seen a ghost.
“What man, buddy?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual. “The one who gives Mommy flowers when you’re at work!” he replied cheerfully, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. I looked at Claire, expecting her to laugh it off.
She didn’t. She looked at Jamie, then at me, and said nothing. “You know who I mean, Mommy,” Jamie continued.
“Last time he brought pink roses. I wanted to see, but you told me to go to my room and not bother you.”
Claire opened her mouth, but no words came out. “Honey, I think maybe you dreamed that,” she finally said, voice shaky.
“I didn’t dream it!” Jamie insisted, crossing his arms. “He comes during the day. You always smile and say the pink ones are your favorite.”
The silence that followed was so thick you could’ve sliced it like pie.
I didn’t want to jump to conclusions—I trusted Claire. But her reaction? That wasn’t the reaction of someone with nothing to hide.
That night, after we put Jamie to bed, Claire sat curled on one end of the couch, scrolling on her phone like everything was normal. I sat on the other, trying to pretend the question hadn’t rattled me to my core. But I couldn’t let it go.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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