Commercial real estate can be profitable.
But it can also be unpredictable.
Paul’s income depended heavily on commissions.
Some months were excellent.
Other months brought very little.
During the five months leading up to that Thanksgiving, he hadn’t closed a major commercial lease.
I knew because I managed our financial records.
His deposits had become increasingly irregular.
Meanwhile, my salary as a supply chain director remained steady.
I earned enough to support our household comfortably, provided we respected the budget we’d agreed upon.
We were saving for a new roof.
We were also rebuilding an emergency fund after an unexpected home repair earlier that year.
Paul knew both things.
He’d sat across from me at the kitchen table while we discussed the figures.
He’d nodded.
Agreed.
And promised we’d be careful.
Then Thanksgiving approached.
On Tuesday evening, I was pushing a grocery cart through a crowded Whole Foods in River Forest.
One wheel squeaked every time I turned into another aisle.
The store was filled with families buying cranberries, pie crusts, fresh herbs, and more butter than any reasonable household should need.
I carried a detailed shopping list.
Most of it came from Paul.
He’d sent it earlier that afternoon.
Brenda wanted organic sweet potatoes.
A particular artisan sourdough for the stuffing.
Fresh rosemary rather than dried.
Unsalted European-style butter.
And a specific brand of sparkling water.
I bought everything.
At the register, the total came to three hundred forty dollars and twenty-two cents.
I remember the exact amount because I stood looking at the receipt afterward, wondering why a dinner for four people cost so much.
Paul had offered to split the grocery expenses when we’d discussed Thanksgiving back in October.
But he never mentioned it again.
So I paid with my own debit card.
Wednesday evening, I began preparing.
I washed vegetables, chopped celery and onions, prepared cranberry sauce, and organized ingredients in glass containers.
The turkey needed to be brined.
The pies needed attention.
I still had to clean the guest bathroom.
By eleven, I was tired enough that the kitchen floor felt uncomfortable beneath my feet.
Paul spent most of the evening watching basketball in the living room.
Around midnight, he wandered into the kitchen.
He opened the refrigerator, inspected the containers, and nodded.
“Looks like you’ve got everything under control.”
I looked toward him.
“Could you at least help me put the extra chairs around the table?”
He glanced toward the clock.
“Tomorrow morning. I’m exhausted.”
Then he poured himself a glass of water and went upstairs.
I remained in the kitchen for another hour.
The following morning, I began cooking before six.
The sky outside was still dark.
The house was quiet.
I prepared the turkey, checked the oven temperature, and began calculating the timing for the side dishes.
Paul appeared around eight.
He wore tailored jeans and a navy sweater.
His hair was neatly combed.
For a moment, I wondered why he was dressed so carefully for a morning at home.
Then he poured coffee and leaned against the counter.
“Mom wants to go to the botanic garden.”
I stopped wiping the counter.
“Today?”
He nodded.
“She wants to see the autumn colors before everything turns gray.”
I looked toward the oven.
“Paul, we’re supposed to have dinner together.”
“We will.”
He smiled reassuringly.
Then continued.
“Look, you know how Mom gets when she’s here early. She hovers. She comments on everything. She’ll tell you the potatoes need more butter or the stuffing needs less sage.”
That was true.
Brenda had a remarkable ability to criticize a meal before it was cooked.
Paul continued.
“I thought I’d take Mom and Jessica out for a few hours. Let you work in peace.”
I studied him.
For a moment, his explanation sounded considerate.
He knew his mother could be difficult.
He knew I was already stressed.
And he seemed to be offering a way to make the day easier.
“When will you be back?”
“Plenty of time for dinner.”
I nodded.
“All right.”
He kissed my cheek.
“See? I’m looking after you.”
Then he left.
I watched his car disappear down the driveway.
Afterward, I went back to cooking.
The hours passed slowly.
The oven warmed the kitchen until the windows began fogging.
I washed the same mixing bowls repeatedly.
Boiled potatoes.
Prepared casseroles.
Basted the turkey.
Checked timers.
And tried to keep everything ready for the moment my husband’s family returned.
Around noon, I texted Paul.
“How’s the garden?”
He replied.