My mother-in-law couldn’t stand me hosting a heartfelt Thanksgiving dinner and wrecked it. She didn’t stop there—she destroyed my late Grammy’s treasured keepsake, shattering my heart. On Christmas, I got my revenge on my cruel mother-in-law.
As the first snowflakes dusted the windows, I was in the kitchen, eagerly testing Thanksgiving recipes, filled with holiday cheer.
My husband, Callum, was helping with dishes and gathering ingredients, not without his playful jabs and chuckles about how I scorched the apple pie last Thanksgiving.
Minor kitchen mishaps happen, especially for a homemaker like me who’d recently left her beloved teaching job to focus on family full-time! But for some husbands like Callum, our occasional cooking blunders are like kindling for their laughter.
The feast was two weeks away, and as I opened the oven to check my Grammy’s classic pumpkin pie, I shot back at Callum with a bold grin, “Don’t worry, love! This Thanksgiving will be unforgettable!”
To my dismay, Callum roared with laughter when I pulled out a burnt pie. My grin faded, and my heart sank. I was crushed because this was Grammy’s cherished Thanksgiving recipe. Despite my fourth attempt that week, I’d botched it again.
Nobody could bake a pumpkin pie like Grammy. I had her precious recipe book, filled with her legendary dishes. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t match her skill, which was maddening.
“Ugh, I’ll never get this right. Sorry, Grammy! She’d have my head if she saw this disaster from above!” I sighed with a weak laugh, frustration written across my face.
Callum chuckled gleefully. “Seren, why not order the meal from a fancy restaurant this Thanksgiving? Wouldn’t that be simpler than… this? Besides, times have changed, love. People order out instead of making a mess in the kitchen!”
I sighed. How could Callum miss the emotions tied to a homemade Thanksgiving?
“I know, Callum. But it’s Thanksgiving! It’s a special time for us, and I’m trying to honor Grammy’s recipes to keep the tradition alive,” I said.
Callum frowned but didn’t argue in front of our kids, Riven and Tallis, who were playing with their baby brother, Auren, nearby.
So I quietly picked up Grammy’s recipe book and said, “I want this Thanksgiving to be special. Only my mom can help me get these dishes right. I’m inviting her over!”
Callum whipped around, giving me a sharp look. “Seren, what? It’s my family’s turn this Thanksgiving, remember? Last year was yours. This year, it’s mine!” he snapped.
I couldn’t believe Callum wanted to invite the person I feared most—my mother-in-law, the daunting Isolde—for Thanksgiving.
I thought he’d understand how tough the past year had been after losing Grammy to illness. I didn’t want my widowed mom, Maelle, to spend Thanksgiving alone in her cottage.
“Callum, I can’t leave Mom alone. You know she’s been by herself since Grammy passed. She hasn’t moved in with us because of her health, but that doesn’t mean she can’t join us for the feast,” I argued.
“Who’s saying she has to be alone? Tell her to visit your brother. At least she has someone else. My mom has no one but me, Seren. I can’t exclude her from the holidays,” Callum shot back.
I was livid and heartbroken. This happened every year. Callum adored his mom so much that Isolde was there for every event—our kids’ graduations, birthdays, Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, you name it.
Don’t misunderstand—I don’t hate my mother-in-law or resent her presence. But you’ll see why I dreaded her for this particular Thanksgiving.
“What’s wrong? Why so quiet?” Callum snapped, waiting for my response.
“Wade is celebrating in Hawaii this year, Callum. Mom’s in treatment and can’t afford to travel that far. She’d need a plane ticket, a hotel, food. After everything this past year, I don’t want her spending so much when she can drive 100 miles to join us!” I said.
I thought Callum would get it now. I was wrong.
“So, you get to have your mom for Thanksgiving, but I don’t? Wow!” he hissed.
“No, love, that’s not what I meant. You know how critical and overbearing your mom is when she’s here. She picks apart everything I do or say. It’s not that I don’t want her around. I just wanted a joyful celebration this year—”
“So, my mom’s annoying and bossy, huh, Seren? As if your mom’s perfect!” Callum scoffed, missing the weight of my words.
How could I make him see I wasn’t Isolde’s enemy? I wondered.
Isolde is critical in ways you can’t imagine. Her sharp eye and rigid standards have turned many happy moments into ordeals.
She’s like that strict teacher we all feared—the one who shamed us, comparing us to the top students, expecting perfection while ignoring that we’re human and make mistakes.
Not that Isolde was flawless! She’s had her own missteps. My mother-in-law is a challenge, and getting her to admit fault, let alone apologize, is like a doomed space mission.
Age and experience don’t always create perfectionists, right? But Isolde is… unique! Her obsession with flawlessness, even down to how I pour her water, and her judgmental attitude were my biggest fears.
But Callum would never see that. To him, his mother was always right, and she had to be here for Thanksgiving. End of story. Our kids, tired of our kitchen argument, piped up with a suggestion.
“Mom, Dad, why not invite both Grandma Isolde and Nana Maelle for Thanksgiving? We’d get to spend time with both our grandmas!”
I locked eyes with Callum. He knew my thoughts. “No, terrible idea!” I blurted out before he could respond.
The problem is, my mom and his mom are like oil and water. Picture a cat and mouse in one house! At least cartoon rivals sometimes make peace. My mom and Isolde would bicker endlessly over the pettiest things.
I knew I had to convince the kids it was a bad plan. “No, sweeties. Nana Maelle and Grandma Isolde are…”
“A disaster waiting to happen!” Callum finished for me.
“Why, Dad?” Riven asked, looking up.
Callum sighed, clearly frustrated. “Well, Riven, it’s like you and Rory at school. You’re in the same class but don’t get along and keep clashing.”
“Yeah, ‘cause we can’t stand each other!” Riven said.
“Exactly!” Callum snapped his fingers, chuckling while shooting me a cold look.
I knew he was upset with me. Would he budge and invite only my mom? The answer came that night when Callum called Isolde to join us for Thanksgiving.
His decision pushed me to my limit. The idea of having both my mom and Isolde for the feast gave me chills.
I’d already promised Mom she wouldn’t be alone this Thanksgiving. I knew she was counting on my call. How could I let her down? How could I face telling her Isolde would be there too?
The next morning, warmed by the sunrise, I stood by the window and called Mom. After a warm chat, I invited her. She was overjoyed, her excitement clear.
“That means so much, dear. I can’t wait to see you and the grandkids. What should I bring?” she asked.
My heart grew heavy—I hadn’t told her everything, and I hoped Thanksgiving would go smoothly. As I turned, Callum was behind me, glaring.
“You sure about this, Seren? You know they can’t stand each other,” he said, his tone sharp.
“So, you want me to uninvite my mom, Callum? Leave her alone while everyone else enjoys the feast?” I shot back.
“Alone? Like you wanted to exclude my mom? I feel bad for her,” he said.
“Feel bad? For Isolde? Don’t forget she’s the one always criticizing everyone. Nobody meets her impossible standards. She’s so overbearing, and you’re pitying her?”
“I’m done listening!” Callum slapped on his headphones and stormed out.
I knew he hated hearing the truth about his mom. But I wasn’t lying. Sometimes, the truth stings, and this was a bitter reality about Isolde that Callum needed to accept.
Lenore’s judgmental nature wasn’t a secret—I’d dealt with it for 15 years of marriage.
Two days before Thanksgiving, I heard loud honking outside our suburban home. My pulse raced like wild horses after a shot. Isolde had arrived.
Callum’s face lit up with a huge grin as his mother walked in. He glanced at me, and before he could say anything, I forced a smile as Isolde entered, arms wide.
“Mom, I missed you!” Callum hugged her as I watched, nervous as a spectator at a tense match. “You look stunning!”
“Aww, my sweet boy! I missed you too!” Isolde cooed.
Sweet boy? Callum? Please. He’s like a loyal pup around his mom, I thought, stifling a laugh as I looked at Isolde.
I stood smiling, hoping she’d acknowledge me, maybe hug me or ask how I was. Instead, she ignored me, strode to the kitchen, and scowled.
“Good heavens! What’s this chaos, dear?” Isolde snapped at Callum. “This kitchen looks like a junkyard after a dog fight!”
I was mid-chores when she arrived, with plenty left to do. Kitchens get messy with a big family and a dog to feed. I still cleaned nightly, ensuring the kitchen was spotless before bed.