BEFORE THANKSGIVING DINNER, I GOT A TURKEY FROM A STRANGER WITH A NOTE INSIDE
I’d been up since 6 a.m., prepping Thanksgiving dinner while Ryan lounged on the couch, yelling at football.
Around noon, the doorbell rang. A delivery guy handed me a beautifully roasted turkey in a fancy box.
“I didn’t order this,” I said, confused.
“Special delivery,” he replied, smiling.
I thought, “Wow, did Ryan actually do something thoughtful?” But when I opened the box, my stomach dropped.
Inside was a note: “THANK YOU for sharing your husband with me!”
My hands shook as I reread it. While Ryan cheered at the TV, I grabbed his phone.
I reread the note for the fourth time, each word burning into my mind like a brand.
“Thank you for sharing your husband with me!”
Who would send this? Was it a cruel joke? My heart pounded, every beat louder than the last, drowning out the football announcers blaring from the living room.
Ryan, oblivious to the storm brewing, hollered at the TV. “Touchdown! Let’s go, baby!” His carefree laughter grated on me like nails on a chalkboard.
My hands shook as I placed the note on the counter. I had two options: confront him directly or dig deeper before making accusations. My mind raced, replaying the last few months. Ryan had been coming home later than usual, excusing it with work meetings and last-minute projects. He was always glued to his phone, chuckling at texts he’d never share with me. And then there were the moments he’d seemed distant, distracted, and almost guilty.
The pieces started forming an ugly picture, but I needed proof. I grabbed his phone, my heart thundering in my chest. It was lying on the armrest of the couch where he’d left it, screen locked.
“Hey, can you grab me a beer while you’re up?” he called out, not even glancing my way.
I forced a smile, though he couldn’t see it. “Sure thing,” I replied, masking the tremor in my voice. I handed him the beer and snatched his phone when his focus returned to the game.
Lockscreen. Four digits. I had no idea what his passcode was. My palms were slick with sweat as I tried his birth year. Nothing. Then our anniversary. Wrong again.
“Everything okay?” he asked, glancing up for a second.
“Yeah, just grabbing my phone charger,” I lied, slipping the phone into my apron pocket. My mind buzzed with a thousand questions.
I retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I stared at his phone, desperation clawing at my gut. Then, an idea struck. I picked up the phone and pointed it at his face through the crack in the door. The screen lit up, unlocking instantly.
Trembling, I scrolled through his texts, my breath catching in my throat. There it was—a thread with someone named “Samantha ❤️.” My stomach churned as I read their messages.
Samantha: Can’t wait to see you again. Last night was incredible.
Ryan: Same here. I hate sneaking around, but it’s worth it for you.
Samantha: I think she knows something.
Ryan: She doesn’t. Trust me.
A wave of nausea rolled over me. It was true. My husband was cheating on me. But what hit me harder was the realization that he’d underestimated me. He thought I wouldn’t notice. He thought I was stupid.
I returned to the kitchen, his phone still in my pocket. He was too engrossed in the game to notice. My mind raced as I considered my options. I could confront him now, in front of the Thanksgiving meal I’d spent hours preparing, or I could play the long game.
As I stirred the gravy, the irony struck me. Here I was, preparing a feast to celebrate gratitude and togetherness, while the man I loved betrayed me.
The doorbell rang again, snapping me out of my thoughts. I wiped my hands on a towel and opened the door to find an older woman holding a pie. She looked nervous, her eyes darting behind me as if expecting someone.
“Can I help you?” I asked, my voice sharper than intended.
She hesitated. “I… I just wanted to drop this off,” she stammered, thrusting the pie into my hands. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Wait,” I said, stopping her before she could turn away. “Who are you?”
Her face crumpled. “I’m Samantha’s mother,” she confessed, her voice breaking. “I didn’t know she was… I mean, I didn’t know your husband was married when she told me about him. I’m so sorry.”
The pie slipped from my hands, shattering on the porch. “What did you just say?”
She flinched. “I thought you knew. She told me he was separated. She… she didn’t mean for it to happen like this.”
I felt like the air had been sucked out of my lungs. “Leave,” I whispered, slamming the door in her face.
Ryan looked up, startled. “Who was that?”
“Just someone selling pies,” I said, my voice cold. I grabbed the turkey from the counter and carried it to the dining table, slamming it down harder than necessary.
“Everything okay?” he asked, frowning.
“Perfect,” I said, plastering on a fake smile. “Dinner’s ready.”
As we sat down, I poured myself a glass of wine, then another. Ryan rambled on about the game, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. I wanted to scream, to throw the turkey across the room, but instead, I bided my time.
After dinner, while Ryan dozed on the couch, I made my move. I packed a bag, taking only what I needed. Then I wrote him a note, short and to the point:
“Enjoy your turkey. You’ll need it, because you’ve lost your family.”
I left the note on the empty dining table, next to the remnants of the feast. As I walked out the door, I felt a strange mix of pain and relief. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I couldn’t stay.
Thanksgiving was supposed to be about gratitude, and in a strange way, I was grateful. Grateful for the clarity, for the truth, and for the chance to start over.
