Chapter 2 - The Final Straw
The dining room table was set with fine china that could only be washed by hand and silver candlesticks that hadn't seen actual wax in a decade.
Twenty minutes after we arrived, Cassie and her husband arrived with two bottles of wine—both of them, coincidentally, the exact vintage Ryan used to bring to family dinners before she and Lucas parted ways.
I know this because Cassie made sure everyone knew.
"Oh, Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley," Cassie chirped as she handed the bottle to Linda. "Just like Ryan used to bring! Remember how she visited that vineyard in Oregon and brought back a whole case for your birthday, Mom?"
Linda’s face softened into a nostalgic, dreamy expression.
"She had such exquisite taste," Linda sighed, folding her hands over her stomach. "Always so thoughtful. Always bringing a little piece of her travels to share with us."
I was standing right beside the dining room buffet, holding a ceramic bowl of green bean casserole with homemade crispy shallots.
My arms started to shake.
Not from the weight of the bowl.
From the weight of six years.
Six years of birthdays where my gifts were politely received while Ryan’s former gifts were still remembered with reverence. Six years of holidays where my cooking was evaluated against a ghost who had apparently never burned a roll, never curdled a cream sauce, and never failed to charm every single person in the room.
Lucas caught my eye from across the table.
He gave me a tiny, warning look—the universal marital signal for let it go, don't make a scene, keep the peace.
That look did it.
The look that asked me to swallow my own dignity so nobody else had to feel awkward.
I set the green bean casserole down on the lace tablecloth.
I walked back into the kitchen.
Linda followed me three minutes later, carrying an empty tray.
She didn't notice the stiff, rigid posture in my back as I stood by the sink taking deep, slow breaths.
"Stella," Linda said, her voice dropping into that breezy, casual tone she used when delivering her best material. "Would you mind quickly running out to the garage and grabbing the extra box of cloth napkins? They're in the white plastic bin near the freezer. Honestly, darling, I don't know how you manage to forget things like that when you're packing. Ryan was always so meticulous about checking the supply lists twice. But I suppose nursing keeps your mind occupied with... other matters."
I turned around slowly.
I looked at my mother-in-law.
At sixty-two, Linda looked serene, confident, and utterly oblivious to the fact that she was standing three feet away from a woman who was currently balancing on a very thin wire suspended over a vat of boiling oil.
"My name is Stella," I said.
Linda blinked, her eyebrows knitting together.
"Well, yes, dear. I know that."
"And I spent thirty-six hours cooking this meal," I continued, my voice terrifyingly calm. "I brined the turkey. I peeled twenty pounds of potatoes. I made two pies from scratch while working three hospital shifts this week. And for six years, I have listened to you compare everything I do to a woman who broke your son's heart and left."
Linda’s mouth opened slightly.
"Stella, really, you're being overly sensitive—"
"No," I said, stepping closer to her. "I am being under-supported. By your son, and by you."
At that exact moment, Lucas walked into the kitchen, holding a corkscrew.
He stopped dead when he saw our faces.
"Mom? Stella? Everything okay?"
"Your wife is having some kind of episode, Lucas," Linda said, her voice finally losing its sugary coating and turning sharp and defensive. "I simply asked her to get some napkins from the garage, and she’s standing here shouting at me about the past."
"I am not shouting," I said, though my voice was trembling now. "I am leaving."
Lucas stared at me.
"Leaving? Stella, dinner is about to be served. The whole family is out there."
"Let them eat Ryan's stuffed mushrooms, Lucas," I said, the bitter irony tasting like poison on my tongue.
Without another word, I walked past him.
I went into the dining room, where Cassie and Mark were laughing over a story about a ski trip.
"Poppy," I called out, my voice cracking. "Coat on, sweetheart. We're going."
Poppy looked up from her coloring book, her big gray-blue eyes wide and confused.
"Are we going home, Mommy? We didn't eat the turkey yet!"
"We're going to Grandma's house," I said, meaning my mother’s house across town. "Come on."
Lucas came running into the dining room just as I was scooping the warm mashed potatoes back into their heavy ceramic crockpot.
"Stella, have you lost your mind?" he hissed, grabbing my arm. "You can't just pack up and leave on Thanksgiving! What are we going to tell everyone?"
May you like
I yanked my arm out of his grip, picked up the fourteen-pound roasted turkey in its roasting pan, and turned to face him. The butter and juices sloshed dangerously close to the rim, but I didn't care.
"Tell them Ryan cooked it better, Lucas," I said. "You won't even have to lie."
