My first time hosting Thanksgiving was supposed to be a big “we finally made it” moment. We had a new house, homemade food, and both sides of the family under one roof. Instead, it turned into the day every ugly thing in my in-laws’ dynamic came to the surface, starting with a comment about my cooking and spiraling into something none of us saw coming.
I’m 25, and I still can’t wrap my head around what happened that Thanksgiving.
My mom died when I was 10. My dad worked two jobs, and we scraped by on whatever we could afford. I learned to cook because we couldn’t afford takeout, not because it was cute or trendy.
Thanksgiving at our house back then was usually a small chicken, a box of Stove Top, and maybe a pie if Dad had overtime.
It wasn’t pretty, but it was ours.
Fast forward to now: I married Jason.Continue reading…
