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.
Taking advantage of his obliviousness, I picked up his phone from the counter. 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 code, but I knew what it was: the six digits of Peyton Manning’s birthday. Not even our girls were as important as football.
My hands shook as I clicked on the message from Kelsey. I hoped until the last minute that this was some big misunderstanding.
But the texts confirmed my suspicions. She had sent a message that read: “Can’t wait to see you later.”
And then, a second that said, “Did she get the turkey yet? LOL.
Can’t wait to see her face. Happy Thanksgiving, babe.”
So, yes. That’s how I discovered that my husband was having an affair, and Kelsey was laughing at me.
Actually, they’d both been playing me for a fool. But no longer.
I took a deep breath to compose myself and considered. Once I came up with a plan, I had to act quickly, so I could get through Thanksgiving and… exact my revenge.
****
As was the norm for the past decade, Thanksgiving dinner was always a big production.
Ryan’s parents, sister, and a few of my own relatives gathered around the table. My girls were running around showing off their art.
Meanwhile, I kept my hostess mask firmly in place, greeting them all with a smile while Ryan talked about the football game.
As we sat down to eat, Ryan leaned back in his chair, grinning like he was king of the castle. “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.
Something about that wording had me boiling inside.
His mother nodded approvingly. “You’re so lucky to have her.”
I smiled sweetly and kept eating in silence.
When everyone was done with their main course, I stood and ushered the girls from their seats. I didn’t want them to see or hear what was coming.
“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 her and everyone at the table.
“A special delivery for me from Ryan’s mistress.”
Ryan’s eyes bulged as the rest of the table swiveled their heads to him. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, acting offended.
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!”
“Oh, really?” I said, pulling his phone from my pocket. I scrolled to Kelsey’s messages and handed the phone to his mother.
“Care to explain these texts, which seem to be from the same woman who signed the note?”
His mother’s expression changed as she read their conversation. “Ryan, what is this?” she asked, leaning over the table with a distraught face.
Ryan stayed quiet but jumped when his father slammed his fist on the table. “Answer your mother, right now!
Is this real? Are you cheating on your wife of ten years? The mother of your kids!”
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’s sister stood from the table and pointed at her brother. “You disgust me. Amelia deserves so much better.”
I’d always liked her.
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 for my divorce lawyer, whom I’ll call as soon as this holiday is over. The locks are for the house, which I’ll change tomorrow.
No, I won’t give you any new keys. So, you have until then to pack your things.”
He started sputtering. “Yo-you can’t do this!” he finally said, wiping snot from his face.
“Oh, I can.
The decision’s been made. Happy Thanksgiving, Ryan. And you can take this dirty turkey back to Kelsey.
She can keep you all to herself. No more sharing!” I added.
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 this tail between his legs, Ryan stood and walked out.
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