My mother-in-law told me to get up at 4 a.m. to cook Thanksgiving dinner for her 30 guests. My husband added, “This time, remember to make everything really perfect!” I smiled and replied, “Of course.”
At 3 a.m., I took my suitcase to the airport.
The gate agent’s voice crackled through the airport speakers at 3:17 a.m. “Final boarding call for flight 442 to Maui.”
I clutched my boarding pass with trembling fingers, the paper already damp with sweat and tears.
Behind me, somewhere in our suburban house forty minutes away, thirty place settings sat empty on the dining room table I had spent three hours arranging the night before.
The turkey I was supposed to have started preparing an hour ago remained frozen solid in the refrigerator, like my heart had been for the past five years.
My phone buzzed with another text from Hudson. “Hope you’re up cooking, babe. Mom’s already texting about timing.”
I switched it off and stepped onto the plane, leaving behind more than just a Thanksgiving dinner.
I was abandoning a life that had slowly strangled me one helpful suggestion and dismissive comment at a time.
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