On Thanksgiving morning, Cora’s husband surprises her with a promise: he’s cooking dinner, and she’s to relax. But hours later, a chilling discovery flips her world on its head. As guests gather and praise his perfect meal, Cora prepares for a reveal of her own — one they’ll never forget.
Thanksgiving morning felt almost unreal — it was too quiet, too warm, and too perfect. I woke up to the scent of cinnamon and cloves drifting down the hallway, grounded by the sharper bite of fresh coffee.
For a moment, I thought I was dreaming.
My husband, Eric, doesn’t wake up early. He doesn’t cook. And yet when I followed the scent into the kitchen, there he was — standing barefoot in front of the stove, cracking eggs with a confidence I’d never seen him fake before.
“Morning, babe,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “I took the day off. This year, I’m making Thanksgiving dinner. You just put your feet up and relax. Or go for a drive! Or get your nails done!”
Relax? On Thanksgiving.
Eric said it so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re serious?” I asked, leaning in the doorway, still halfway between sleep and disbelief.
“Dead serious, babe. No chopping, no basting, and no yelling at the oven when it ignores the time.”
“I don’t yell,” I muttered, raising an eyebrow.
“Sure you don’t,” my husband smirked.
He gave me a look — that soft, boyish look he always used when he wanted praise — then kissed my forehead.
“Go to the café,” he said. “Take your books. Get that weird tea you like. Just… come back late, okay? I want it to be a surprise. I want to make you proud of me.”
I paused with my hand on the doorway, watching him move around the kitchen like he belonged there. I hadn’t seen him like this before: focused, comfortable, and confident in a way that didn’t feel forced.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “You know you don’t have to prove anything, right? It’s just our families for dinner tonight.”
“Cora, you’ve cooked every Thanksgiving since we got married. Let me give you a break this year. For once, just enjoy the day and trust me.”
I did trust him. Or, at the very least, I wanted to.
“All right,” I said. “I’m going to shower and then head out to the café. Just call me if you need anything for dinner.”
“Have fun, honey. And get the window seat you like — the one where you pretend to read but you’re really eavesdropping on everyone.”
I laughed. “Don’t tell on me, babe.”
“I know all your secrets, Coraline,” he called out.
Only my mother calls me Coraline — that should’ve been the first sign. But in that moment, all I saw was the man I’d loved since college, standing barefoot in my kitchen, pretending to be a chef.
I wanted to believe this was growth, maturity… late, maybe, but genuine.
And just like that, I handed over the holiday to him.
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