I should have known something was wrong when Rya insisted on setting the table herself that Thanksgiving morning. In the 12 years since Marcus married her, she’d never shown interest in domestic duties.Marriage
She always left those tasks to me while she lounged in the living room, scrolling through her phone or barking orders about how the cranberry sauce wasn’t the right shade of red.
But there she was at 7 in the morning, arranging the good china with unusual precision. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a perfect bun, not a strand out of place.
She wore that cream colored sweater that cost
And she wore that cream colored sweater that cost more than my monthly grocery budget. She kept glancing at me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The kind of expression that reminded me of a cat watching a mouse. “Dela, honey,” she said in that sickly, sweet voice she used when she wanted something. “Why don’t you focus on the kitchen? I’ll handle the dining room today?” I nodded, wiping my hands on my apron.
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At 65, I’d learned to pick my battles with Rya. The kitchen was my domain anyway, where I felt most comfortable preparing the Thanksgiving feast I’d been making for decades.
The same recipes my mother taught me, the same traditions I’d passed down to Marcus when he was small. The turkey was golden brown, the stuffing perfectly seasoned, and the sweet potato casserole bubbling in the oven just the way Marcus loved it. This was supposed to be my day.
