When my daughter-in-law threw out the Thanksgiving meal I spent hours cooking, I was heartbroken.

My turkey recipe? Passed down from my mother. My pecan pie? Perfected after years of trial and error. The mashed potatoes, the stuffing, the cranberry sauce, they’re all a part of me.

But hosting isn’t easy. My knees ache by the time I’m done peeling, chopping, and roasting. Still, I tell myself it’s worth it. My granddaughter, Chloe, always says, “Grandma, your food tastes like love.” Those words keep me going.

This year, though, there was a wrinkle in my plans. My daughter-in-law, Candace, has never cared much for me or my cooking. She’s all about modern twists and store-bought shortcuts. We’ve never said anything outright, but I know how she feels. And she knows how I feel.

At least my son, Brad, and Chloe adore my food. Chloe even asked me last week if I could teach her my pie crust recipe. I told her I would when she was ready to commit to flour-covered counters and sticky fingers. She grinned and said, “Deal.”

By 3 p.m., I was bone-tired but proud. The turkey was golden, the pie was cooling, and the sides were perfectly seasoned. I cooked so much that it didn’t fit into my kitchen fridge, so I had to use the backup one in the garage.

I had just started setting the table when I heard the front door.

“Mom! We’re here!” Brad’s cheerful voice called out.

I blinked at the clock. “You’re early!”

Candace breezed into the kitchen, her blond hair perfectly styled, wearing heels no sane person would cook in. “Hi, Margaret,” she said, barely looking at me. “We thought we’d come early and help.”

“Help?” I repeated, stunned. Candace had never once offered to help with a meal in the 10 years she’d been part of this family.

Chloe bounded in behind her, a bright smile lighting up her face. “Hi, Grandma!” She hugged me tight, and I hugged her back, grateful for the warmth.

Candace clapped her hands. “So, what can I do?”

I hesitated. Was this some kind of olive branch? Or was she up to something? Brad smiled. “C’mon, Mom. Let her pitch in. You’ve done so much already.”

“Alright,” I said slowly. “Candace, you can watch the turkey. I’ll go freshen up for a minute.”

Upstairs, I meant to splash water on my face, maybe sit for a moment to rest my legs. But when I sat down, exhaustion took over. I must’ve dozed off because when I opened my eyes, the house was buzzing with voices.

“Oh no,” I muttered, jumping up. I hurried downstairs and froze at the dining room doorway.

The table was set, and everyone was already eating. Candace sat at the head of the table, smiling as guests complimented her food.

“This turkey looks incredible,” Aunt Linda said, cutting into her slice.

“I worked so hard on it,” Candace said, tossing her hair.

I blinked. Worked hard? None of this looked like my food. My mashed potatoes were creamy, not clumpy. My stuffing had sage, not whatever green flecks this was. Where was my pecan pie?

Feeling a growing knot in my stomach, I slipped into the kitchen. The smell hit me first—sweet potatoes, turkey drippings, and… the trash?

I opened the trash can, and my heart dropped. There were my dishes, sealed containers and all, tossed in with coffee grounds and napkins.

My hands trembled. “What—”

“Grandma?” Chloe’s voice came from behind me. I turned, my eyes filling with tears of anger and hurt. “Did you see—”

“I saw,” she whispered, stepping closer. She looked around to make sure no one else was nearby. “She threw it all out when you were upstairs.”

My voice cracked. “Why would she—”

“Don’t worry,” Chloe said, taking my hand. Her eyes gleamed with something I couldn’t quite place. “I took care of it.”

“What do you mean?”

Chloe smiled. “Just trust me, Grandma. Come on, let’s go back to the table and watch the show.”

And with that, she pulled me toward the dining room, leaving the kitchen and my ruined dishes behind.

The dining room fell quiet. Forks hovered mid-air, and puzzled looks passed between the guests.

“This… uh…” Brad said, his brow furrowed as he chewed slowly. “It’s a little… intense?”

“I think I got a bad piece,” Aunt Linda murmured, reaching for her water glass. “Is it me, or is the stuffing… salty?”

“Salty?” Uncle Jim echoed, his face twisting into a grimace. “This isn’t salty; it’s seawater! What’s in this?”

Candace’s confident smile wavered. “Oh no,” she said, her voice a little too loud. “Really? It’s salty? I must’ve, uh, overdone the seasoning.” Her laugh sounded forced, and her cheeks turned pink. “I was rushing, you know, trying to get everything perfect.”

Chloe nudged me under the table. “Go ahead,” she whispered, her voice low and mischievous.

“What?” I whispered back.

“Try it,” she said, barely holding back her grin.

I glanced at my plate. With growing suspicion, I cut a small piece of turkey and placed it in my mouth.

Immediately, my eyes widened. The turkey was so salty, it made my tongue burn. The stuffing wasn’t any better—it was inedible. I quickly reached for my water, trying not to laugh.

“Well,” I said, dabbing at my mouth, “that’s… something.”

Chloe giggled quietly, and I caught her wink.

The rest of the table wasn’t as composed. Aunt Linda set her fork down with a clink. “I can’t eat this,” she said gently, trying to smile but failing.

Uncle Jim wasn’t so diplomatic. “Candace, this stuffing could preserve a mummy.”

Candace’s smile grew tighter. “Oh, I—I don’t know what happened,” she said, her voice pitching higher. “Maybe the turkey brine was too strong? Or the seasoning mix was bad?”

That was my cue. I stood, clearing my throat. “Well,” I said, raising my glass of sparkling cider, “let’s not worry too much about one little mishap. Cooking for a big crowd is no small task, after all.”

Brad smiled, relieved. “That’s true, Mom. Let’s toast to Candace for all her hard work today.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I added with a sweet smile. “Candace really outdid herself. And since everyone’s still hungry, I have a little surprise of my own.”

Candace’s smile froze. “You do?” she asked, her voice higher than usual.

“Oh, yes,” I said, setting my glass down. “I had a feeling we might need a backup plan, so I prepared some extra dishes. They’re out in the garage fridge. Brad, could you give me a hand?”

The room buzzed with murmurs as Brad followed me out. I opened the fridge, revealing my carefully prepared Thanksgiving dishes still in their containers, untouched.

“Wow, Mom,” Brad said, lifting the heavy pan of turkey. “You really went all out this year.”

“Just wanted to be prepared,” I said lightly, though my heart was racing with satisfaction.

We returned to the dining room, and I began setting my dishes on the table: the golden turkey, fluffy mashed potatoes, savory stuffing, and my famous pecan pie. The guests’ faces lit up.

“This looks amazing,” Aunt Linda said, her hands clasped in delight.

“Finally, real food!” Uncle Jim said with a chuckle, earning a few laughs.

Candace sat stiffly, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Oh, you didn’t have to go to all that trouble, Margaret,” she said, her voice tight.

An ashamed woman | Source: Freepik

A smiling woman talking to her daughter-in-law | Source: Pexels

A smiling girl at a dinner | Source: Midjourney

An elderly woman hugging her granddaughter | Source: Midjourney