“I want everyone to see what we built.”
Then we bought our first house.
It’s not huge, but it’s ours. Old hardwood floors, a tiny yard, a kitchen that needed work but had good light. I cried the first night we slept there, happy tears this time.
Jason held me on the floor between boxes and said, “Next Thanksgiving, we host.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “That’s a lot.”
“I am,” he said. “I want everyone to see what we built.”
So we invited everyone for our first official Thanksgiving.
“Please don’t suck,” I told the turkey. “I need this win.”
I made lists. I watched videos. I planned the turkey down to the minute.
Thanksgiving morning, I was up at six. I started with pies — pumpkin and apple. I made the crust from scratch because I wanted to prove something, maybe to Diane, maybe to myself.
Then I tackled the turkey. I rinsed it, patted it dry, mixed softened butter with garlic and herbs. I rubbed the butter under the skin, seasoned it, stuffed it with onion and lemon.
“Please don’t suck,” I told the turkey. “I need this win.”
Jason shuffled in, hair messy. “Are you talking to the bird?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “We’re in a committed relationship now.”
He laughed, kissed my cheek, and said, “It already smells incredible.”
I made mashed potatoes with way too much butter, green beans with garlic, stuffing from real bread, gravy from the drippings. I even made real cranberry sauce. It burbled on the stove, thick and jewel-red.
By noon, I was exhausted but proud. The turkey was golden and beautiful. The kitchen smelled like every good memory I’d ever tried to build.
Jason came back from a quick work shift just as I was basting the turkey again.
“Damn,” he said, staring. “There she is. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
I smirked. “The turkey?”
“Obviously,” he said.
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