Thanksgiving morning began like any other: me in the kitchen, 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.
During my decade-long marriage to Ryan, hosting Thanksgiving was my responsibility. I’m Amelia, 35 at the time, a wife, a mom of two, and basically a chef-maid combo.
This particular holiday began at 6 a.m. as I prepped for a house full of guests. Ryan, meanwhile, woke up around 11 a.m., sprawled on the couch, and hollered 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. Frowning, I wiped my hands on my apron and muttered, “Who delivers on Thanksgiving?”
Outside stood a cheerful delivery guy holding a box that smelled divine. “Special delivery,” he said, 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 replied before walking off.
I carried the box to the counter, wondering if Ryan had done something thoughtful for once in his life.
Inside was a perfectly roasted turkey, golden brown and magazine-worthy. My heart softened. Could he really have done this for me? Though I wished he would’ve told me before I put another turkey in the oven.
Then I saw the note.
Tucked beside the turkey was a card with sharp, cursive handwriting: “Thank you for sharing your husband with me! Happy Thanksgiving. XO, Kelsey.”
I read it twice, stunned. Sharing my husband? Was this some sick joke? I glanced at Ryan, still glued to the TV, shouting at the screen.
Taking advantage of his obliviousness, I picked up his phone from the counter. Just then, the lock screen lit up with a notification from someone named “Kelsey ❤️.”
My heart sank. I didn’t want to snoop, but I had to know. Ryan had never given me his passcode, but I knew it: the six digits of Peyton Manning’s birthday. Football trumped everything, even his family.
My hands shook as I unlocked his phone and opened the message. Until the last second, I clung to hope this was all a misunderstanding. But the texts confirmed my suspicions.
“Can’t wait to see you later,” read one message. “Did she get the turkey yet? LOL. Can’t wait to see her face. Happy Thanksgiving, babe,” read another.
So, that’s how I found out my husband was having an affair. And Kelsey? She was laughing at me. They both were. But not for long.
I took a deep breath to steady myself and plotted my next move. Thanksgiving wasn’t over yet, and I had a plan.
Dinner was always a big production. Ryan’s parents, sister, and some of my relatives gathered around the table. My daughters ran around, proudly showing off their hand turkey art. I kept my hostess mask firmly in place, smiling and greeting everyone as Ryan rambled about football.
As we sat down, Ryan leaned back with a smug grin. “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 joked.
His mother nodded approvingly. “You’re so lucky to have her.”
I smiled sweetly and stayed silent. Once dinner was over, I stood up. “Excuse me for a moment. I have a little surprise for the girls in their room. I’ll be back with dessert.”
After settling the girls in their room, I returned with the mystery turkey in its fancy box. The room went quiet as I placed it in the center of the table.