She snorted. “It looks cheap,” she said. “You really think Jason deserves this?”
I froze.
“Mom,” Jason said sharply.
I swallowed. “I made everything from scratch,” I said. “It took a while, but I hope everyone likes it.”
She rolled her eyes. “From scratch,” she muttered. “How quaint.”
Before I could react, she grabbed a towel, pulled the entire roasting pan out of the oven, and marched toward the back door.
“Diane, what are you doing?” I said, following her.
She didn’t answer. She opened the back door, walked to the trash can, lifted the lid, and dumped the entire turkey inside.
I heard it hit the garbage bag with a sickening thud.
I just stood there, staring at my turkey in the trash.
“What the actual heck?” I finally managed. “You can’t just throw away our turkey!”
She waved me off. “Calm down,” she said. “I brought a real turkey. We’re not eating that… experiment.”
My hands were shaking. “That was five hours of work,” I said. “You had no right—”
“This is my son’s first Thanksgiving in his new home,” she said. “He deserves something decent.”
She brushed past me like I was in her way and went back inside.
Jason was in the kitchen, eyes wide. “Mom, what did you do?” he asked.
She pulled a giant foil-covered tray from one of the bags she’d brought.
“I saved Thanksgiving,” she said. “You’re welcome.”
She yanked off the foil like she was presenting a crown jewel.
It was one of those pre-cooked store turkeys. Pale, shiny, smelling like salt and chemicals.
I stared at it and honestly thought I might throw up.
Richard looked between us and said quietly, “Diane… that was out of line.”
She scoffed. “Richie, please. I know what a proper holiday meal looks like.”
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