The following Thanksgiving, we hosted again.
We invited my brother, some friends who had nowhere to go, and Richard. No Diane.
I woke up early, prepped another turkey, and did the exact same process as the one she’d thrown away.
When I pulled it out of the oven, it was perfect — golden, juicy, smelling like heaven.
Jason whistled. “Queen behavior,” he said.
“Don’t jinx it,” I said, but I was grinning.
We set it on the table. People actually took pictures of it. They moaned when they took their first bites.
“This is insane,” one of our friends said. “I’m never eating my mom’s dry turkey again.”
We ate, laughed, argued about stupid movies, and nobody insulted anybody’s past. Nobody threw anything in the trash.
Richard raised his glass. “To our hosts,” he said. “For a home filled with kindness and good food.”
My chest felt warm.
Later that night, when the dishes were done and the house was quiet again, Jason and I stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter.
“Second year in a row you’ve nailed the turkey,” he said. “Starting to feel like I married way up.”
I nudged him. “You definitely did.”
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