Hosting Thanksgiving was my duty 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. because I prepared for a house full of guests. 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?”
“Special delivery,” he announced.
“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!”
Okay. I carried the box to the counter, thinking maybe Ryan had planned something sweet for once in his life.
But then I read 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.”
The lock screen lit up just then with a notification from someone named “Kelsey ❤️.”
I didn’t want to snoop, but I had to know. He’d never given me his passcode, but I knew what it was: the six digits of Peyton Manning’s birthday.
The texts confirmed my suspicions.
“Can’t wait to see you later,” her first message read. “Did she get the turkey yet? LOL. Can’t wait to see her face. Happy Thanksgiving, babe,” read the second.
I took a deep breath to compose myself and considered my next move.
Once I came up with a plan, I had to act quickly to get through Thanksgiving.
As we sat down to eat, Ryan leaned back in his chair, grinning like he was king of the event. “You know, Thanksgiving wouldn’t be the same without Amelia. She works so hard every year. I really have the best taste in women,” he said, chuckling.
His mother nodded approvingly. “You’re so lucky to have her.”
“Excuse me for a moment. I have a little surprise for the girls in their room. I’ll be back with our dessert.”
After settling the girls in their room, I walked to the kitchen and returned to the dining room with the mystery turkey in its fancy box. The room fell silent as I placed it in the center of the table.
“Amelia, we just ate a whole turkey. Why did you make a second one?” Ryan’s mother asked, furrowing her eyebrows.
“This arrived earlier today,” I announced to everyone at the table.
“A special delivery for me from Ryan’s mistress.”
I held up the note. “It’s all here.”
His face turned as white as the mashed potatoes. “No—this isn’t real. It’s just some prank, Amelia!”
My husband looked down and started crying.
“YOU PATHETIC LITTLE—” his father began but stopped himself. “How could you do this to your family?”
Ryan sniffled. “Amelia, we-we ne-need to talk about thi-this in private—”
“Oh, we’ll talk,” I said, cutting him off. “But first, I have one more surprise.”
The room was tense as I reached under the table and pulled out the final piece of my plan: a small bag containing a shiny new set of locks and a piece of paper with a phone number scrawled across it.
“This,” I said, placing them in front of Ryan, “is to show you what’s going to happen next. The card has the number of my divorce lawyer, who I’ll be calling as soon as this holiday is over. The locks are for the house, which I’m changing tomorrow. No, I won’t be giving you any new keys, so you have until then to pack your things.”
Ryan’s mother burst into tears as his father shook his head in disgust. His sister glared at him, muttering, “You need to leave.”
With his tail between his legs, Ryan stood and walked out.
By Christmas, I’d filed for divorce, and my daughters and I spent the holidays at my mom’s house.
By the next Thanksgiving, I was with a wonderful new man, who woke up earlier than me to prepare the feast. He was even a much better cook and took charge of the kitchen while I got to rest for the first time in years.
