The Impossible Assignment
Three days earlier, the sound of Vivien’s heels clicking across our hardwood floor always reminded me of a judge’s gavel: sharp, decisive, final.
She swept into our kitchen like she owned it, which according to Hudson, she practically did, since they’d helped us with the down payment.
“Isabella, darling.” Her voice carried that particular tone she used when she was about to assign me a task disguised as a favor. “We need to discuss Thanksgiving arrangements.”
I was elbow-deep in dishwater from the dinner I had just served them, Hudson’s favorite pot roast with all the sides his mother had taught me to make the right way during my first year of marriage.
My hands were raw from the scalding water, but I’d learned not to wear rubber gloves around Vivien. She’d once commented that they made me look unprofessional.
“Of course,” I replied, forcing brightness into my voice. “What can I do to help?”
Hudson looked up from his phone long enough to share a glance with his mother. I’d seen it thousands of times over the years, a silent communication that excluded me entirely.
Vivien reached into her designer purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The way she handled it with such ceremony made my stomach twist into knots.
She placed it on the counter next to me with the care of someone presenting evidence in court.
“The guest list for Thursday,” she announced. “I’ve invited a few more people this year. Cousin Cynthia is bringing her new boyfriend. Uncle Raymond is coming with his whole family, and the Sanders from the country club will be joining us as well.”
I dried my hands on a dish towel and picked up the paper. As I unfolded it, the names kept coming and coming.
I counted once, then twice, certain I’d made a mistake.
“Thirty people.” The words came out as barely a whisper.
“Thirty-two, actually. Little Timmy Sanders counts as a half person since he’s only six. But you should still prepare for thirty full portions. Growing boy and all that.”
Vivien’s laugh was like crystal breaking.
“I know it seems like a lot, but you’ve gotten so good at hosting these family events. Everyone always raves about your cooking.”
Hudson finally looked up from his phone, but only to nod in agreement.
“You got this, babe. You always pull it off.”
I stared at the list, my eyes blurring slightly as I tried to process what they were asking.
In previous years, we’d hosted maybe fifteen people, and even that had meant I’d started cooking two days in advance, barely slept, and spent the entire dinner running back and forth between the kitchen and dining room while everyone else relaxed.
“When did you invite all these people?” I asked, my voice smaller than I intended.
“Over the past few weeks,” Vivien said dismissively. “Don’t worry about the timing, dear. You’ll manage just fine. You always do.”
“But I haven’t bought groceries for thirty people. I haven’t planned a menu for…”
“Oh, I took care of the planning part.” Vivien pulled out another piece of paper, this one covered in her precise handwriting. “Here’s the complete menu. I’ve upgraded a few things this year. The Sanders are used to a certain standard, you understand?”
I looked at the menu and felt the room start to spin slightly.
Turkey with three different stuffings. Ham with pineapple glaze. Seven different side dishes. Four desserts, including a homemade pie crust for the pumpkin pie because store-bought just wouldn’t do.
Homemade cranberry sauce. Fresh bread rolls.
The Four AM Demand
“Vivien, this is… this is a lot for one person to handle.”
She waved her hand as if I’d mentioned something trivial, like a minor inconvenience with the weather.
“Nonsense. You’re perfectly capable. Besides, Hudson will be there to help.”
I looked at my husband, hoping to see some recognition in his eyes that what his mother was asking bordered on impossible.
Instead, he was already back to scrolling through his phone.
“I’ll definitely help out,” he said without looking up. “I can carve the turkey and open wine bottles.”
Carve the turkey. Open wine bottles. That was his idea of help for a meal that would require approximately sixteen hours of active cooking time.
“What time should I start cooking?” I asked, though part of me already knew the answer would be unreasonable.
Vivien checked her expensive watch.
“Well, dinner should be served at 2 p.m. sharp. The Sanders prefer to eat early. I’d say you should start around 4:00 a.m. to be safe. Maybe 3:30 if you want everything to be perfect.”
“Four a.m.,” I repeated.
“Start cooking at four in the morning,” she said more firmly this time, handing me the guest list. “And make sure everything is perfect this time.”
Hudson looked up then, but only to add his own emphasis.
“Yeah, and make sure everything is perfect this time. The stuffing was a little dry last year.”
The stuffing that I’d made while simultaneously managing six other dishes while he watched football in the living room.
The stuffing that everyone else had complimented. The stuffing that his mother had specifically requested I make again this year.
“Of course,” I heard myself say. “Of course, I’ll make sure everything’s perfect.”
But as I stood there holding that list of thirty-two names and a menu that would challenge a restaurant kitchen, something cold settled in the pit of my stomach.
It wasn’t just the impossibility of the task they’d assigned me. It was the casual way they’d assigned it, as if my time, my effort, my sanity were commodities they could spend without consideration.
Later that night, after Vivien had gone home and Hudson had fallen asleep, I sat at our kitchen table with a calculator, trying to figure out the logistics.
The turkey alone would need to go in the oven at 6:00 a.m. to be ready by 2:00 p.m., but I’d need the oven space for other dishes.
The math didn’t work. The timing was impossible.
I found myself staring at the guest list, really looking at it for the first time. Thirty-two people, but my name wasn’t on it.
I was cooking for thirty-two people and I wasn’t even considered a guest at the dinner I was preparing.
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