Thanksgiving morning hit like a freight train.
My coffee had long gone cold while I bounced between prying crayons out of Lily’s sticky hands and catching Max mid-cookie heist as he clambered onto the kitchen counter.
“Lily, sweetie, we color on paper, not the walls,” I said, pulling the purple crayon from her grip.
She just beamed up at me with that infuriatingly innocent grin.
“Max!” I called, grabbing the plate just as he snatched another cookie. He giggled, crumbs tumbling down his chin like tiny confessions. I hoisted him off the counter and handed him a toy whisk as a peace offering.
The turkey was roasting, the table half-set, and the potatoes? Still chunky—but I was determined.
Hosting Thanksgiving every year was my personal Super Bowl. Stressful, chaotic, and entirely too much—but secretly, I loved the sense of accomplishment it brought. Even if my in-laws only showed up to eat and critique.
I had just turned back to the kitchen when the front door flung open and my husband’s voice echoed down the hallway.
“We’re here!”
We?
I turned, bowl of partly-mashed potatoes in hand, to find Alex in the entryway, all smiles. The kind of smile he wears when he’s just made a decision he thinks is brilliant—but will absolutely ruin my day.
Behind him, a stream of unfamiliar faces poured in—laughing, chatting, carrying wine bottles and plastic bags full of snacks. My pulse spiked.
“Alex,” I said slowly, each syllable sharp as a knife, “who exactly is ‘we’?”
He kept grinning. “Just a few people from work. They didn’t have anywhere else to go, and you always say Thanksgiving is about community, right?”
I stared, my grip tightening on the bowl.
“How many?”
He shrugged. “Fourteen. Fifteen, tops.”
Fifteen. Fifteen uninvited strangers in my house on the most carefully choreographed meal day of the year.
I had a full-body vision of hurling the bowl of potatoes at his head.
But I don’t throw food. Not yet, anyway.
Instead, I inhaled deeply, pushed the rage down, and forced a tight-lipped smile as I walked into the living room, where the crowd had begun to awkwardly hover.
Lily was showing one guest her crayon mural on the wall, while Max toddled proudly with a mouthful of crackers.
“Welcome, everyone!” I chirped. A startled man dropped his bag of chips. “So glad you could join us! Since this was…a bit of a surprise,” I said, letting the silence hang, “we’ll need to work together to make this feast happen.”
Alex’s smile flickered. Finally.
“I mean, you’ve got everything under control, right?” he offered, hopefully.
“Oh, absolutely. But you’ll be taking the kids upstairs now so I can focus. Thanks, babe.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but my stare made it clear: Don’t. He wisely collected the children and retreated, now sporting a construction-paper turkey Lily had glued to his shirt.
I turned to the guests, smile firmly in place.
“Okay! Marcus—yes, you,” I said, pointing at the man who’d dropped the snacks, “help me finish mashing these potatoes. And Rachel? You’re on table setting.”
They blinked, unsure whether this was punishment or tradition. I didn’t give them time to decide.
Soon, everyone had an assignment. My pop-up kitchen brigade sprang to life like an army of nervous interns.
The chaos was beautiful. Someone burned the rolls. Another put salt instead of sugar in the pie crust. But somehow, by sheer force of will (and a generous pour of wine), we pulled it together.
By dinner, the table was a masterpiece. Turkey golden and steaming, mashed potatoes smooth, and dishes lined up like a Thanksgiving commercial.
I sat at the head of the table, glass raised.
“Thank you all for coming—on very short notice,” I said with a polite smile aimed directly at Alex. “This feast was made possible by teamwork. Isn’t that what the holidays are really about?”
Alex’s boss laughed. “You didn’t tell us we’d be on kitchen duty, Alex!”
Everyone chuckled. Alex looked sheepish and sank deeper into his chair. I allowed myself a moment of glorious vindication.
After dessert, I clapped my hands. “Alright, team! Time for cleanup. Alex, you’re leading dish duty.”
His coworkers didn’t even blink. Up they rose, gathering plates like clockwork.
I leaned against the doorway, sipping my wine, watching Alex elbow-deep in soap suds, whipped cream on his cheek, and defeat in his eyes.
Max waddled over and tugged on his pant leg. Alex knelt down with a sigh.
“Mommy’s the boss, huh?” he whispered.
You bet your paper turkey I am, I thought, grinning.
Later, when the house was quiet and the kids snoring, Alex joined me on the couch, handing me a mug of tea.
“Leah,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much goes into this. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you.”
I let the silence linger just long enough before replying, “No. You shouldn’t have.”
He gave a sheepish smile. “But… you were amazing.”
I sipped my tea, sighing with satisfaction. “Next time, maybe we set a guest limit.”
He froze. “Next time?”
I laughed. “Hopefully not. But if there is, you’re bringing takeout.”
Thanksgiving was a wild ride—but at least I’m the one driving.
