I stood frozen as gravy ran down my favorite blue blouse, the one I had carefully ironed that morning. Stuart’s words hung in the sudden silence.
My hands shook as I tried wiping the mess with a napkin far too small for it.
I’m Inz Morrison, 65, a retired elementary school teacher who spent 35 years shaping young minds, a widow for 5 years, and apparently a useless old woman according to my own son.
Thanksgiving dinner had been perfect until then.
I’d spent three days preparing everything—baking pumpkin and pecan pies from scratch, hand-rolling dough for my famous cranberry tarts, and roasting a 20 lb turkey until golden.
The table gleamed with my late mother’s china and crystal glasses reserved for special occasions.
Stuart had been drinking since arriving with Jennifer, his wife of 15 years. I noticed his slight sway and overly loud laugh but said nothing.
I never commented on his drinking anymore. Not since Christmas 5 years ago, when he told me to stop nagging.
“Mom, when are you going to sell this ridiculous house?” Stuart had asked suddenly halfway through the meal. “It’s way too big for just you.”
“I’m not planning to sell,” I replied quietly, passing the mashed potatoes to my granddaughter, Lily. “This is my home.”