My mom always left my dad, swearing it was for good, only to return after his apologies and gifts. It became a pattern I was used to, a cycle that never broke. But this time, when she showed up at my door with a suitcase, she had news that changed everything.
I sat across from my friend Sandy in my kitchen, enjoying a rare moment of free time together. Life got busy, and it felt like we never saw each other anymore.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“It’s nice to finally catch up,” Sandy said with a smile.
“Yeah, it is,” I agreed, pouring her a glass of wine.
After a pause, she looked at me curiously. “Is your mom living with you now?”
“No, why would she?” Sandy’s eyebrows furrowed.
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“I thought she left your dad again?”
“Oh, you know how it goes with them. Every two years, same story. He messes up, she gets mad, packs her bags, and swears she’s done for good. Then he buys her something fancy, and suddenly all is forgiven. They act like they’re in love again, like nothing ever happened.” Sandy sighed.
“Have you tried talking some sense into her?”
“I did,” I said, feeling the old frustration return.
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“I told her she deserves better. But then she goes back to him, and she’d get mad at me, saying I wasn’t supporting her.”
Sandy frowned and took a sip of her wine. “I’m sorry, Amalia. That sounds hard.”
My eyes landed on the corner of the kitchen table, where my mom had left a note the last time she left my dad. I could still picture her then—standing in my doorway, suitcase in hand, her face full of hope.
“I’ve left him for good this time, Amalia,” she said with a determined smile.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
I wanted to believe her, but deep down, I doubted it. Still, a tiny hope stirred inside me, whispering that maybe this time would be different.
We went to a café nearby for breakfast, sitting across from each other. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves, and finally said what I’d been too scared to say before.
“Mom, you know you can’t keep going back to him, right?” I asked, my voice steady.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
She looked down at her coffee, then back up at me with a weak smile. “Of course, I’m not planning to. I’ve made up my mind.”
I sighed and leaned closer. “He’s awful, Mom. He treated you terribly. He doesn’t change.”
“I know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. I reached out and took her hand.
“I just want you to be happy. You deserve that, you know?”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
She squeezed my hand, her eyes watering. “Thank you, dear. It means a lot.”
I thought maybe my words got through to her. Maybe this time would be different. But when I came back from work that evening, the house was quiet. I called for her, but no answer.
Instead, a note sat on the table: “Your father apologized and bought me a new car. I realized I overreacted and went back. XX Mom.” I crumpled the note, tossing it into the trash. How foolish I’d been to hope.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
Sandy’s words pulled me out of my thoughts. “You should understand your mom better than anyone,” she said. “You left Robert, and that was hard. But you did it.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, it was hard. But I knew I had to.” She lifted her glass, her eyes warm.
“Well, I think you’re strong as hell. Cheers to that.”
I laughed and raised my glass. “Cheers.”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
The next morning, I woke up late. My alarm didn’t go off, or maybe I just slept through it. Either way, I was rushing around, trying to get dressed, find my keys, and grab my bag all at once.
My hair was a mess, and I could barely think straight. I could already tell it was going to be one of those days where nothing goes right. As I tried to slip on my shoes, I heard the doorbell. I glanced at the clock.
I didn’t have time for this. “Damn it,” I muttered, frustrated. I opened the door and froze. There stood my mom, holding a suitcase, her face serious.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but the words slipped out. “What did Dad do this time?!”
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away. Her eyes stayed locked on mine, and she said, “He died.”
For a moment, everything around me just stopped. I couldn’t breathe or think. My mind went completely blank, like a switch had been turned off. I tried to say something, anything, but no words came out.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
After hearing the news, I called my boss and said I needed the day off. There wasn’t much I could explain, so I just told him there was a family emergency. My mom and I got in the car and drove back to my childhood home.
When we arrived, I walked into my old bedroom and felt a rush of memories. Everything was the same—the posters on the wall, the faded bedspread, even the little figurines on the shelf. It was like stepping back in time, and for a moment, I felt like I was a teenager again.
On the morning of the funeral, I woke up to loud music blasting through the house. I groaned, pulled the pillow over my head, but Mom just turned it up louder, filling every corner of the house.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“Mom! Turn it off!” I shouted, my voice barely cutting through the blaring music.
“What?!” she yelled back from somewhere down the hall. “Hold on, I can’t hear you!”
A moment later, the music stopped, and I heard her footsteps. She appeared in my doorway, looking calm, like it was just a regular morning. “What were you saying?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Why is the music so loud?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s too early for this.”
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She shrugged, a small smile on her face. “This song makes me happy,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I stared at her. “You’re not supposed to feel happy today. It’s the funeral.”
She looked at me, still smiling. “Why not? You should feel happy every day, no matter what’s happening.”
I sighed, rubbing my temples. “Besides, this song is like 20 years old. Nobody listens to it anymore.”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
She raised an eyebrow. “You used to love it,” she said. “I remember you dancing around your room, singing every word.”
“Yeah,” I replied, “and then I got sick of it, like everyone else.”
She paused for a moment. “I don’t know. When I love something, I love it forever,” she said softly, then turned and walked out. A few seconds later, the music started up again, just as loud.
After greeting everyone at the church, shaking hands, and hearing the same phrases—”I’m so sorry for your loss,” “He was a good man”—I felt drained. It was like I was on autopilot, just nodding and thanking people without really thinking.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
I needed a break, so I slipped away to a small, quiet room at the back of the church. I was hoping to be alone for a minute, but when I walked in, Mom was already there, sitting by the window. She looked up and smiled, her eyes tired but calm.
“I don’t like funerals either,” Mom said, staring out the window.
I just scoffed, feeling a bitter laugh rise in my throat. “Yeah, well, we’re stuck here.”
She turned back to me. “Did you prepare your speech?” she asked, her tone gentle.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
I shook my head. “I’m not saying anything. I don’t have anything good to say about him.”
Mom’s face softened, like she was trying to understand. “Why not? He was a good father and a wonderful husband.”
I stared at her, stunned. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Are we talking about the same person?”
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She looked confused. “Why do you hate him so much?” she asked, almost like she truly didn’t understand. “I never got it.”
“Why? Do you really want to know?” I felt something snap inside, and the words just came pouring out. “When I was 13, you went on a business trip, and my friend stayed over. We heard noises from your bedroom. We thought someone was hurt, so we went to check…”
“…And there he was, in bed with Mrs. Brown, our neighbor. I just screamed and ran out of the house. And when I came back, he didn’t say a word to me. He pretended like it never happened, like I didn’t see it. That’s why I hated him. And I still hate him,” I said, my voice trembling.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
Mom’s eyes softened. “I know.”
“You don’t know how I feel!” I shouted, tears welling up.
“I mean, I know about the affairs,” she said, her voice calm.
“You knew?” I asked, shocked. “And you did nothing?”
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“Of course I knew,” she said softly.
“Then I hate you too,” I said, my voice cold. I turned to leave, but her voice stopped me.
“I’m sorry, Amalia,” Mom said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t strong like you. I was scared to leave him. I didn’t know how to do it for good.”
“You think I wasn’t scared when I left Robert? I was terrified,” I said, my voice shaking a little. “But I did it because I knew I had to. And you know what? It was hard, but eventually, it felt… freeing.”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“I’m glad to hear that. I never liked Robert, you know. When you left him, I was so proud. You knew you deserved better. But it wasn’t the same for me. When I love something, I love it forever. And I loved your father.” I stared at her, confused.
“Even after he treated you that way?”
She nodded. “He wasn’t perfect. I never needed him to be. He had flaws, and some were really big ones. But he always came back.”
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I frowned, trying to understand.
She sighed, her eyes meeting mine. “Honestly, I’m glad to hear you hate me. Because all this time, I thought you didn’t care. And between hate and indifference, I’d rather have your hate.”
I didn’t expect those words to hit me the way they did, but they did. For some reason, I found myself smiling a little. I glanced at the clock. “We need to go. People will be waiting.”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
Mom gently placed her hand on my back. “You know, your father loved two things most in life: expensive liquor and making you laugh. Maybe you can mention that in your speech, but… skip the first part,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips.
I couldn’t help but laugh, a real, honest laugh, and for a moment, the tension lifted. We left the small room together, side by side, and I felt something shift inside me.
I glanced at Mom and realized she wasn’t just my mom—she was a person, with her own fears, flaws, and regrets. I had always seen her as someone who should be stronger, someone who should have known better. But in that moment, I understood she was just trying her best, like I was.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: While helping her mother, Sarah, move into a new house, Natalie stumbles upon an old photograph hidden in a box. It shows a young Sarah holding a newborn baby with a distinctive birthmark on its cheek. But Natalie never had a birthmark. Confused and unsettled, she realizes there’s a secret her mother has been hiding.
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My Husband Insisted on Cooking the Turkey This Year – What He Did to It Made Me Question Our Marriage
When Jake insists on cooking Thanksgiving turkey for the first time, Jen is skeptical but supportive until the result is a culinary disaster no one at the table can ignore. But the real shock comes when she discovers the recipe isn’t Jake’s. As tensions simmer and doubts creep in, she’s forced to confront the cracks in their marriage. This Thanksgiving, the turkey isn’t the only thing leaving a bad aftertaste.
Thanksgiving has always been my domain. I’m not saying I’m Martha Stewart in any way, but the turkey? That’s my masterpiece.
So when Jake, my husband of six years, announced he’d be taking the reins this year, I was caught off guard.
A woman standing in the kitchen | Source: Midjourney
“This year, I’m cooking the turkey,” he declared over dinner one night, his tone brimming with confidence.
“I’ve got a secret recipe, Jen…”
I smiled at him, though something about the way he said secret made my stomach do a little flip.
“Alright,” I said, keeping my tone light. “I’ll put my feet up, maybe do my nails. Just let me know if you need any help.”
A man sitting at a dinner table | Source: Midjourney
“I won’t,” he shot back quickly.
Too quickly.
“This is going to be special.”
Jake’s always been eager to impress. At work, with his friends, his mother — especially his mother. And Patricia’s the type of woman who finds fault in compliments. She’d call the Mona Lisa “a little boring.”
A woman drinking a glass of wine | Source: Midjourney
The morning of Thanksgiving, Jake was a man possessed. He’d woken up early to prep, shooing me out of the kitchen before I could even pour my coffee.
“I’ve got it under control,” he chirped.
Patricia, perched at the counter with her ever-present glass of wine, raised a skeptical eyebrow.
A coffee machine | Source: Midjourney
“Jen, are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked me, her voice dripping with faux concern. “You’ve always done the turkey so well.”
“It’ll be fine,” I muttered, more to myself than to her.
Hours later, Jake emerged from the kitchen with our Thanksgiving centerpiece. To his credit, it looked perfect. Golden-brown, glistening, straight out of a food magazine or blog. He had even made roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and a thick gravy.
A Thanksgiving turkey | Source: Midjourney
My mom clapped enthusiastically. Patricia tilted her head, inspecting it like a jeweler appraising a diamond.
“It smells amazing!” my mom gushed.
We gathered around the table, Jake beaming as he carved the first slice. Music was being played, plates were passed, and soon everyone had a helping. I cut into mine, ready to be caught off guard by the delicious meal.
People sitting around a table | Source: Midjourney
The moment it hit my tongue, I gagged.
“What the…?” I coughed, reaching for my water.
It wasn’t savory. It wasn’t even remotely turkey-like. It was sweet. Sickeningly, cloyingly sweet, like someone had glazed it with melted candy or something.
“Jake,” I managed, staring at him in disbelief. “What is this?”
A woman holding a napkin to her mouth | Source: Midjourney
Patricia, mid-chew, spat hers into a napkin with dramatic flair.
“Oh, Jake. Oh no.”
Jake’s face flushed red.
“It’s a glaze!” he said defensively. “Brown sugar, maple syrup, and marshmallow fluff. It’s different! It’s creative!”
A woman holding napkin to her mouth | Source: Midjourney
“Creative?” I echoed. “It tastes like someone dropped a turkey in a vat of something at Willy Wonka’s factory.”
The room fell silent. My brother-in-law, Steven, stifled a laugh. My mom pretended to focus on her mashed potatoes. Patricia, never one to miss an opportunity, shook her head with a dramatic sigh.
“This is why we don’t mess with tradition, Jake. Since you got married, Jen’s been the turkey girl. Tradition, Jake. Tradition.”
A woman sitting at a table with a glass of wine | Source: Midjourney
Jake’s jaw tightened at her comment, but he stayed quiet. I noticed his hand twitch toward the wine bottle. Like he wanted to grab it and drown out the awkwardness with some good old fermented grapes.
Later, after most of our guests had shuffled home and Jake had retreated to the den to lick his wounds, I stayed behind to clean the kitchen.
“Don’t worry about it, honey,” I said. “You chill in there, and I’ll be with you soon. I stashed a pumpkin pie earlier, because I know we like it with cold whipped cream.”
A slice of pumpkin pie and whipped cream | Source: Midjourney
I was trying to be nice. To help him realize that it had been a mistake, and nothing was wrong with that.
As I tossed scraps into the trash, a crumpled piece of paper caught my eye. Curious, I smoothed it out, revealing a handwritten recipe.
My heart sped up when I saw the name at the bottom of the page.
Sarah.
The contents of a trash can | Source: Midjourney
Sarah. Jake’s ex-wife.
My hands trembled as I stared at the card. Of all the people Jake could have gone to for a recipe — Google searches included — why on earth would he choose her? My mind worked overtime, trying to connect dots I didn’t want to see.
I stormed into the living room, holding the recipe card like evidence. Jake looked up from his football game rerun, his face draining of color.
A man sitting in front of a TV | Source: Midjourney
“Care to explain this?” I asked, my voice colder than I intended.
Jake sat up straighter.
“I… uh… I just wanted to make something special, Jen. Sarah worked as a cook for a while, when she was into catering. And I thought she’d… you know… have some good ideas for me.”
A woman in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney
“You thought Sarah would have the answer?” I interrupted, my voice rising. “Not me, your wife, the person who has been cooking almost all of your meals, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners included, for years?”
Jake’s mouth opened, then closed. For once, he had no response.
“I just… I didn’t want to mess up,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re so good at it, and I thought if I asked, you’d take over. I wanted to prove that I could do it all on my own.”
A man holding his head | Source: Midjourney
“And you couldn’t just ask me for a little help?” I snapped. “Not even for my suggestions? Instead, you went to your ex-wife?”
Jake winced.
“Jen, it wasn’t like that…”
“No?” I shot back. “Then what was it like?”
A woman with her hands on her hips | Source: Midjourney
As I lay staring at the ceiling that night, my mind wouldn’t stop spiraling. Jake’s explanation felt weak. If he was too insecure to ask for my help with a turkey, what did that say about our relationship?
And Sarah?
Why her?
Was she really his best option, or was something else behind it? I mean, if I’m being honest, people always say you remember your first love forever.
A woman laying in bed at night | Source: Midjourney
The next morning, Jake approached me with a mug of coffee and a slice of pumpkin pie.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m really sorry, love. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to impress everyone, and I… I messed up royally.”
I nodded, keeping calm and collected, as I had instructed myself all night. I could barely sleep with my mind running through the possibilities.
A cup of coffee and a slice of pie | Source: Midjourney
“I understand wanting to impress people, Jake. But here’s the thing — next time you want advice, like good, solid advice, maybe start with the person you married. And for the record? Sarah sabotaged you. This recipe? Unless it was for some sickly sweet cereal treat, it was revenge, plain and simple.”
Jake blinked, his mouth dropping open.
“You think…”
A man looking shocked | Source: Midjourney
“Oh, I don’t think, Jake,” I said firmly. “I know.”
He groaned, sinking into the nearest chair.
“Goodness, I’m such an idiot.”
Jake couldn’t seem to meet my eyes for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend. He apologized again, twice, but it didn’t erase the lingering doubt. I kept replaying the moment I found that recipe card and the look on his face when I confronted him.
A man looking apologetic | Source: Midjourney
Patricia, of course, added fuel to the fire. She was staying with us for the weekend and naturally had heard everything.
“Well, at least he learned his lesson,” she remarked with a smug sip of her wine.
Jake had decided to take our dog for a walk, leaving Patricia and me alone, dissecting the entire turkey fiasco.
A man with his dog | Source: Midjourney
“Do you really think he went to her for help?” I asked my mother-in-law. “That there is nothing else going on?”
“Darling, Sarah cheated on him. She broke his little heart, so it can’t be anything more. I think our foolish man just wanted to impress the women in his life, so he reached out to the only other one he knew well.”
“I’m doubting everything.” I admitted, picking up Patricia’s glass of wine and taking a sip.
A woman holding a glass of wine | Source: Midjourney
“Jen, he adores you. He’s just a bit stupid sometimes. But if you think that a bigger and more important conversation needs to be had, then go ahead, darling. Do it.”
I nodded.
By Sunday night, I was exhausted — emotionally, mentally, physically. That Thanksgiving turkey didn’t just leave a bad taste in my mouth. It left cracks in something I thought was solid.
A woman sitting on a porch | Source: Midjourney
The truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever fully trust Jake’s judgment again. Not just in the kitchen but in everything. And as we lay in bed that night, his soft apology didn’t make those doubts disappear.
For now, I’m still here. But I can’t shake the feeling that something shifted this Thanksgiving, and once things crack, it’s hard to piece them back together again.
A couple standing in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney
What would you have done?
If you’ve enjoyed this story, here’s another one for you |
At Christmas Dinner, My Daughter Stood up and Shouted, ‘And Where’s the Man Mom Keeps in Our Basement?’
Over a family dinner with his wife, daughter, and extended family, Quentin thinks everything will be perfect in the Christmas wonderland his wife has created. But during dinner, Daphne, his daughter, claims there’s a man hidden in their basement. Quentin has no choice but to uncover the truth.
Christmas dinner was supposed to be perfect this year. My wife, Ivy, had spent weeks transforming our home into a holiday wonderland, from garlands framing the doorways to twinkling white lights strung across the windows.
A house decorated for Christmas | Source: Midjourney
Our 8-year-old daughter, Daphne, had helped set the table, her chaotic but charming touch evident in the mismatched napkin folds and slightly tilted name cards.
Both sets of grandparents were with us, this being Ivy’s first Christmas with her stepfather, Patrick. Everyone was laughing, trading stories, and sipping mulled wine. For once, everything felt harmonious.
Until Daphne destroyed it all.
A smiling little girl | Source: Midjourney
I was mid-slice into the turkey, the knife gliding through the golden, crispy skin, when Daphne climbed onto her chair.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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