Thanksgiving morning started like any other, with me in the kitchen and my husband glued to the TV. But when a surprise turkey arrived with a note thanking me for “sharing” my husband, I decided to serve up a dish of my own: revenge, right at the dinner table.
Hosting Thanksgiving was my responsibility during the decade I was married to Ryan. I’m Amelia. I was 35 at the time of this story. I was also a wife, a mom of two, and basically a chef-maid combo.
This particular holiday started at 6 a.m. as I had to prepare for a house full of guests. Meanwhile, Ryan simply woke up around 11 a.m. and sprawled on the couch to yell at some football game.
By noon, the turkey was roasting, the green bean casserole was ready to go, and my daughters were busy drawing hand turkeys at the kitchen table. That’s when the doorbell rang. I frowned and wiped my hands on my apron, muttering, “Who even delivers on Thanksgiving?”
Outside stood a cheerful delivery guy holding a box that smelled divine. “Special delivery,” he announced, thrusting it into my hands.
“I’m sorry. We didn’t order this,” I said, confused.
“Lady, I don’t care. I just want to finish this day quickly. Enjoy!” he chirped before walking off.
Okay. I carried the box to the counter, thinking maybe Ryan had planned something sweet for once in his life.
Inside was a perfectly roasted turkey, golden brown and so beautifully presented it could’ve been on a magazine cover. My heart softened for a moment. Could he really have done this for me? Though, I wished he would’ve told me before I put a turkey in the oven.
But then I saw the note.
It was tucked beside the turkey, written in sharp, cursive handwriting: “Thank you for sharing your husband with me! Happy Thanksgiving. XO, Kelsey.”
I read it twice as my brain refused to process the words. Sharing my husband? Was this a sick joke? I glanced at Ryan, who was still glued to the TV, hollering at some touchdown.
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