“Sure you don’t,” my husband smirked.
He gave me a look — that soft, boyish look he always used when he wanted praise — then kissed my forehead.
“Go to the café,” he said. “Take your books. Get that weird tea you like. Just… come back late, okay? I want it to be a surprise. I want to make you proud of me.”
I paused with my hand on the doorway, watching him move around the kitchen like he belonged there. I hadn’t seen him like this before: focused, comfortable, and confident in a way that didn’t feel forced.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “You know you don’t have to prove anything, right? It’s just our families for dinner tonight.”
“Cora, you’ve cooked every Thanksgiving since we got married. Let me give you a break this year. For once, just enjoy the day and trust me.”
I did trust him. Or, at the very least, I wanted to.
“All right,” I said. “I’m going to shower and then head out to the café. Just call me if you need anything for dinner.”
“Have fun, honey. And get the window seat you like — the one where you pretend to read but you’re really eavesdropping on everyone.”
I laughed. “Don’t tell on me, babe.”
“I know all your secrets, Coraline,” he called out.
Only my mother calls me Coraline — that should’ve been the first sign. But in that moment, all I saw was the man I’d loved since college, standing barefoot in my kitchen, pretending to be a chef.
I wanted to believe this was growth, maturity… late, maybe, but genuine.
And just like that, I handed over the holiday to him.
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