I looked at my husband, really looked at him, and saw a stranger. When had he become someone who could watch me work myself to exhaustion and feel no obligation to help? When had I become someone whose struggles were so invisible that they didn’t even register as real problems?
“I’m going to bed,” I said finally.
“Good idea. Get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”
As I lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, I did math in my head. If I got up at 3:30 a.m., I could have the turkeys in the oven by 4:00. That would give me ten hours to prepare seven side dishes, make fresh bread rolls, prepare four desserts, and create nut-free alternatives for the three dishes that were now off limits.
Ten hours for what should have been twenty hours of work. The math didn’t work. The timeline was impossible. And yet somehow I was expected to make it happen because I always made it happen.
That’s when I realized the most devastating truth of all. I had trained them to treat me this way. Every time I’d pulled off an impossible dinner, every time I’d smiled and said “of course” when asked to do the unreasonable, every time I’d apologized for things that weren’t my fault, I had taught them that my limits didn’t matter. I had made myself indispensable and invisible at the same time.
I set my alarm for 3:30 a.m. and closed my eyes, though sleep seemed as impossible as the task waiting for me in a few hours.
Wednesday, 2:47 a.m.
I woke up before my alarm, my body jolting awake from a dream where I was running through an endless kitchen while faceless people shouted orders at me. The house was completely dark and silent, except for Hudson’s steady breathing beside me.
For a moment, I lay there in the darkness, and a strange thought crossed my mind. What would happen if I just didn’t get up? What if I stayed in bed and let the alarm ring? What if thirty-two people showed up to an empty table and had to figure out their own dinner for once?
The thought was so foreign, so completely counter to everything I’d been conditioned to do, that it almost made me laugh. Almost.
But then I imagined Vivien’s face when she arrived to chaos instead of perfection. I imagined Hudson’s confusion when he realized I wasn’t going to fix everything like I always did. I imagined thirty-two people who had made no alternative plans, who had brought nothing to contribute, standing around looking at each other.
And for the first time in years, I felt something other than dread about a family gathering. I felt curious.
I slipped out of bed without waking Hudson and padded downstairs to the kitchen. In the early morning darkness, surrounded by the evidence of yesterday’s prep work, I allowed myself to really think about the unthinkable.
What if I left?
Not forever, not dramatically. Just left. Got in my car and drove somewhere else. Let them handle one meal without me.
The idea was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. I’d never, in thirty-one years of life, simply not shown up to something I was expected to do. I’d never let anyone down. I’d never put my own needs before someone else’s convenience.
I made a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, looking at the guest list that still lay where Vivien had placed it two days ago. Thirty-two names. Thirty-two people who were expecting me to sacrifice my sleep, my health, my sanity to provide them with a perfect meal while they provided nothing in return except criticism if things weren’t exactly right.
I picked up my phone and, on impulse, opened a travel website—just to look, just to see what was possible.
The first result made my breath catch. “Last-minute Thanksgiving getaway to Hawaii. Limited seats available. Depart early Thursday morning. Return Sunday.”
I’d always wanted to go to Hawaii, but Hudson preferred destinations with good golf courses and business networking opportunities.
“Hawaii is just beaches and tourist traps,” he’d always said. “What would we do there all day?”
I clicked on the listing before I could talk myself out of it. The flight departed at 4:15 a.m., almost exactly the time I was supposed to start cooking. The price was high, much higher than Hudson would ever approve of for a spontaneous vacation. But it was our money too. Our joint account that I’d contributed to just as much as he had, even though he made more, and somehow that gave him veto power over major purchases.
I stared at the booking screen for a long time, my finger hovering over the “select flight” button.
What kind of person abandons thirty-two people on Thanksgiving?
But another voice in my head, quieter but somehow stronger, asked, What kind of person expects one individual to handle thirty-two people’s dinner with no help?
I thought about Ruby, uninvited from a family she’d been part of for eight years because her divorce made her inconvenient. I thought about Hudson dismissing my requests for help like they were unreasonable demands instead of desperate pleas. I thought about Vivien casually mentioning a life-threatening allergy the day before the dinner, as if my ability to completely restructure the menu overnight was a given.
I thought about who I used to be before I became the person who always said yes, who always made it work, who always apologized for not being perfect enough.
Before I could change my mind, I clicked “select flight.”
The next screen asked for passenger information. I typed in my name, my birth date, my information. Just mine. A party of one.
There was something powerful about seeing my name on that booking form all by itself. Isabella Fosters. Not Hudson’s wife. Not Vivien’s daughter-in-law. Just me.
I entered our credit card information and clicked “book now” before I could think too hard about what I was doing.
