On Thanksgiving morning, Cora’s husband surprises her with a promise: he’s cooking dinner, and she’s to relax. But hours later, a chilling discovery flips her world on its head. As guests gather and praise his perfect meal, Cora prepares for a reveal of her own — one they’ll never forget.
Thanksgiving morning felt almost unreal — it was too quiet, too warm, and too perfect. I woke up to the scent of cinnamon and cloves drifting down the hallway, grounded by the sharper bite of fresh coffee.
For a moment, I thought I was dreaming.
My husband, Eric, doesn’t wake up early. He doesn’t cook. And yet when I followed the scent into the kitchen, there he was — standing barefoot in front of the stove, cracking eggs with a confidence I’d never seen him fake before.
“Morning, babe,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “I took the day off. This year, I’m making Thanksgiving dinner. You just put your feet up and relax. Or go for a drive! Or get your nails done!”
Relax? On Thanksgiving.
Eric said it so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re serious?” I asked, leaning in the doorway, still halfway between sleep and disbelief.
“Dead serious, babe. No chopping, no basting, and no yelling at the oven when it ignores the time.”
“I don’t yell,” I muttered, raising an eyebrow.
