“My husband will help,” I said automatically, though the words tasted like lies.
She looked at me for a long moment, and I could see pity creeping into her expression.
“Honey, that’s not help. That’s watching someone drown while standing on the dock.”
Her words followed me home and echoed in my head as I began the prep work. I laid out ingredients across every available counter space, transforming our kitchen into something that looked more like a commercial food preparation facility than a home.
By noon, I’d been working for six hours straight and had barely made a dent in what needed to be done. My back ached, my feet throbbed, and I hadn’t eaten anything except a handful of crackers.
That’s when Hudson wandered into the kitchen, still in his pajamas, coffee mug in hand.
“Wow, you’re really going all out this year,” he said, surveying the chaos. “Smells good already.”
I was elbow-deep in turkey stuffing, my hands coated with a mixture of breadcrumbs, celery, and raw egg.
“Can you help me get this into the bird? I can’t manage it alone.”
