I thought the worst thing my mother-in-law ever did was sneak a turkey leg into her purse on Thanksgiving. This year, she walked into my house in stilettos, walked out with my entire Thanksgiving dinner, and somehow still managed to blame me for what happened next.
I’m the kind of person who waits for Thanksgiving like kids wait for Christmas.
Every year, the Friday before Thanksgiving, I pull out my grandmother’s recipe cards. They’re yellowed and bent, stained with grease, her handwriting leaning a little to the right. Just seeing them makes my chest feel warm.
I buy real butter. None of the cheap stuff. I roast garlic for mashed potatoes until the whole house smells amazing. I brine the turkey for twenty-four hours like I’m trying to impress the Food Network judges. I bake pies the night before so they set just right.
Thanksgiving is my joy. My connection to my grandma. My comfort.
The first time, she took a tray of stuffing.
My MIL, Vada? To her, Thanksgiving is a photo opportunity. She loves designer heels, salon blowouts, filters, and whatever new boyfriend she’s dating that season. She never cooked a full meal in her life unless microwaving Lean Cuisines counts.
For the last few years, she’s had this little habit of “dropping by” before dinner and leaving with my food.
“Sweetheart, you made so much,” she said, already wrapping it in foil. “You won’t even miss it.”
Last year, she slipped a turkey leg into her purse. The next year, it was a whole pumpkin pie.
“One little turkey leg,” she’d said. “You won’t even notice.”
Axel, my husband, would get mad for about five minutes, then shrug. “It’s just food, babe. Let it go. She’s like that.”
So I let it go. But I never forgot.
This year, I decided my Thanksgiving was going to be perfect.
Monday was pie crusts and pumpkin puree. Flour on my shirt, flour in my hair. Grandma’s sunflower apron tied around my waist.
Tuesday was pies, casseroles, sweet potato mash. I played 90s music and sang into a whisk. Suri danced around me while Seth pretended to be “too cool” but still stole spoonfuls of filling.
Wednesday was chopping, slicing, brining, marinating. I scrubbed out a cooler in the bathtub just to fit the turkey and brine. The turkey looked like it was taking a spa day.
By Thursday morning, I could’ve collapsed from exhaustion, but the house smelled incredible. By 4 p.m., everything was done. Butter. Garlic. Herbs. Roasting turkey. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Pies.
The table looked like a magazine spread: white tablecloth, cloth napkins, the good plates, little place cards with everyone’s names that Suri drew with crayons and tiny turkeys.
I stood there, looking at it all, feeling that deep, warm satisfaction you get when your hard work turns out exactly how you imagined.
Axel came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, rested his chin on my shoulder.
“You outdid yourself this year, babe,” he whispered.
For a moment, everything felt perfect.
We called the kids. “Hands washed, butts in chairs!” I yelled.
They were actually excited, which, if you have kids, you know is rare.
We all sat down. I picked up my fork.
“My new man is expecting a home-cooked dinner.”
And then the front door slammed so hard my fork bounced off my plate.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Vada’s voice cracked through the house.
She marched in like she owned the place. Red lipstick. Fresh blowout. Tight dress. High heels clicking loudly through the hallway.
My stomach dropped.
“Vada?” I said. “What are you—”
She didn’t answer. She was already lifting the turkey off the table.
She walked straight past the dining room to the kitchen, opened my cabinet, pulled out my brand-new Tupperware set, and started snapping containers apart like she’d been planning this all week.
“Mom?” Axel said, standing up. “What are you doing?”
“I need this,” she said, like it was obvious. “Callum is expecting a home-cooked dinner. I didn’t have time. The salon ran late.”
She said “salon” like it was a life-or-death emergency.
I stared at her. “Don’t be greedy.”
“Vada, stop,” I said. “We’re about to eat. That’s our dinner.”
She rolled her eyes and started shoveling stuffing into a big container.
“You have plenty. Share the wealth.”
I felt my face heat up.
“Mom, what the hell?” Axel snapped. “Put it back.”
“You’ll still have something,” she said. Then grabbed the mashed potatoes, gravy, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, mac ‘n’ cheese, cornbread.
“Put the turkey down.”
If it wasn’t nailed down, it went into a container.
Suri whispered, “Mom?” from the table. Seth just stared, eyes wide.
I followed Vada into the kitchen. “That’s enough,” I said. “You can’t take our entire dinner.”
She froze for a second, gave a tight fake smile.
“Sweetheart,” she said, voice dripping with fake sweetness. “You should be thankful people admire your cooking. This is a compliment.”
“Stop. You’re taking everything.”
“This is theft,” I said.
She shrugged, picked up the turkey anyway, and dumped it into the biggest container.
I felt something inside me crack.
“Mom, I’m serious,” Axel said. “Stop.”
“Oh my God, Axel, don’t be dramatic,” she snapped. “You’re not five. You don’t need a big fancy dinner to feel loved.”
She snapped lids on, stacked containers into reusable grocery bags she brought, and drove off with my entire Thanksgiving dinner.
The house went silent. Table still set. Candles lit. Platters empty.
I grabbed the counter with both hands. “I spent four days on that.”
Axel put his hand on my back. “Babe… don’t cry.”
I let out a sharp laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Four days. She just… took it.”
“We’re still having Thanksgiving,” I said, forcing cheerfulness. Frozen pizza from the freezer became our emergency dinner.
The kids were confused, but I tried to make it fun.
Then Vada called. She was furious, shrieking about how I ruined her dinner, how her boyfriend Lars thought she was insane, how she didn’t understand anything, and how it was all my fault.
Axel and I just stared. Then we laughed hysterically. The absurdity was too much.
Christmas Eve rolled around. We stayed home, made hot cocoa, curled up on the couch. Lights reflected in the window. Snow falling outside.
“You always give,” Axel said. “She always takes. This year, you gave us Thanksgiving. She stole it. Karma gave it back.”
“Next year,” he added, “Thanksgiving is just us. Whatever you want. We go out, we stay in, you make a feast, it’s only for people who deserve it.”
Some people think taking from others makes them powerful. But nothing tastes better than watching karma serve it back. With gravy on top.