Covered the casserole.
Closed the insulated potato pot.
Wrapped the rolls.
Linda appeared.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“Why?”
“I’m taking the food.”
She stared.
“What do you mean?”
“All of it.”
“The turkey is still cooking.”
“I know.”
“It needs another hour.”
“I’ll finish it somewhere else.”
Her face changed.
“Stella.”
I folded foil over the apple pie.
“You’ve mentioned Ryan’s food several times. You don’t seem comfortable with mine.”
“That is not what I said.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
I looked at her.
“I’m tired.”
“Of cooking?”
“No.”
That answer landed between us.
Linda crossed her arms.
“You’re overreacting.”
There it was.
The sentence I had expected eventually.
I nodded.
“Maybe.”
That surprised her.
“But I’m still leaving.”
“You would take Thanksgiving dinner away from everyone because I said the rolls were dense?”
“No.”
I picked up the cranberry sauce.
“I’m taking my work somewhere I can enjoy sharing it.”
Her mouth opened.
No words came.
I had never spoken to Linda like that.
Not loudly.
That was what made it different.
Lucas appeared in the doorway.
He looked at the covered dishes.
Then at his mother.
Then at me.
“Stella?”
“I’m going to Mom’s.”
He stayed still.
“I’ll take Poppy.”
I tied the roll bag.
“You can stay.”
That was important.
I did not want him to feel forced into choosing a side in a room full of relatives.
Not yet.
His mother looked at him.
“Lucas, surely—”
He raised one hand.
“Mom.”
Nothing else.
I waited for the familiar sentence.
You know how she is.
Or:
Can we just get through dinner?
Or:
We’ll talk about it later.
He said nothing.
I made three trips to the car.
Todd helped me with the casserole without asking questions.
Cassie stood near the hallway looking miserable.
Poppy carried the roll basket against her chest like a ceremonial object.
“I’m helping.”
“You are.”
“Are we going to Nana’s?”
“Yes.”
“Is Daddy coming?”
I looked toward the house.
“Maybe later.”
She accepted that the way four-year-olds accept almost everything if snacks are involved.
Lucas buckled her in.
He shut the door.
Then looked at me.
“Text me when you get there.”
“I will.”
His face held something I could not read.
Guilt.
Confusion.
Maybe both.
I pulled out of the driveway with every dish still in the car.
Forty-five minutes later, my mother opened her front door and looked at the pies in my hands.
She did not ask what happened immediately.
That is one of the reasons I love her.
She looked at Poppy.
Looked at the bags.
Looked at me.
Then said: