I should have known something was wrong when Rya insisted on setting the table herself that Thanksgiving morning. In the 12 years since Marcus married her, she’d never shown interest in domestic duties.
She always left those tasks to me while she lounged in the living room, scrolling through her phone or barking orders about how the cranberry sauce wasn’t the right shade of red.
But there she was at 7 in the morning, arranging the good china with unusual precision. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a perfect bun, not a strand out of place.
And she wore that cream colored sweater that cost more than my monthly grocery budget. She kept glancing at me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The kind of expression that reminded me of a cat watching a mouse. “Dela, honey,” she said in that sickly, sweet voice she used when she wanted something. “Why don’t you focus on the kitchen? I’ll handle the dining room today?” I nodded, wiping my hands on my apron.
At 65, I’d learned to pick my battles with Rya. The kitchen was my domain anyway, where I felt most comfortable preparing the Thanksgiving feast I’d been making for decades.
The same recipes my mother taught me, the same traditions I’d passed down to Marcus when he was small. The turkey was golden brown, the stuffing perfectly seasoned, and the sweet potato casserole bubbling in the oven just the way Marcus loved it. This was supposed to be my day.
The one time of year when the whole family gathered in the house that had been my home for 43 years. The house where I’d raised Marcus after his father died, working two jobs to keep us afloat, sacrificing everything to give him the life he deserved. Marcus arrived first with the children, Emma, 10, and little Jake, seven. They ran to me with genuine excitement, their faces lighting up when they saw me. Emma hugged my waist tight. Grandma Dela, we missed you so much. Those moments made everything worthwhile.
I held them close, breathing in their innocence, their pure love that asked for nothing in return. They didn’t care that I wore the same dress I’d had for 5 years, or that my hands were rough from years of work. They just loved me. “I missed you, too, sweetheart,” I whispered into Emma’s hair. “Go wash up. Dinner will be ready soon.” Rya’s parents arrived next, followed by Marcus’s uncle Tom and his wife. The house filled with chatter and laughter. The kind of warm chaos that reminded me why I love the holidays. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to feel that familiar warmth of being surrounded by family. We gathered around the dining room table, the one I’d bought with my first Christmas bonus 20 years ago.
Marcus sat at the head, looking handsome in his button-down shirt, though I noticed the stress lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there when he was younger. Rya positioned herself to his right, her posture perfect, her smile radiant as she played the role of the perfect wife and mother. I took my usual seat, the one closest to the kitchen so I could jump up to refill dishes or grab forgotten items. It had become my designated spot over the years, though I couldn’t remember exactly when that happened. Before we say grace, Rya announced, her voice carrying that theatrical quality she used when she wanted to be the center of attention. I have a little surprise for everyone. She reached under her chair and pulled out an envelope cream colored to match her sweater. Her fingers were perfectly manicured.