My wife quietly took my father off our Thanksgiving guest list. When I asked why, she barely hesitated.

Pie.

The whole house smelled like butter, herbs, and sage.

I opened the cabinet above the refrigerator and pulled out several foil trays.

Then I started packing.

Turkey first.

Then stuffing.

Potatoes.

Green beans.

Rolls.

Pie.

I didn’t shout.

I didn’t slam anything.

I didn’t argue.

I just packed Thanksgiving dinner one dish at a time.

Eventually, Karen appeared in the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking care of something.”