When my six-year-old son, Leo, asked if we could save a seat at Thanksgiving dinner for “the man who always brings Mommy flowers,” I thought he must have been imagining things. But the look on my wife Megan’s face told me there was more to the story, and I was determined to find out.
Thanksgiving has always been a time of joy and togetherness in our family. This year, however, Leo’s innocent comment planted a seed of unease. It made me wonder if I really knew my wife.
Growing up, Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday. My mom made a big deal out of it every year, inviting the entire extended family for a grand feast. The house was filled with the smell of roasted turkey, laughter, and way too many pumpkin pies. Those memories stayed with me, and when I married Megan, I wanted to carry on that tradition.
For the past seven years, Megan and I hosted Thanksgiving at our home. It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it. Megan cooks up a storm, I pitch in with setting the table and keeping Leo entertained, and the house buzzes with warmth and love. It’s chaotic, but in the best way.
This year, we decided to keep it small—just the three of us. Life’s been stressful lately with work deadlines, school activities for Leo, and the little things that pile up when you least expect them. On top of that, I’ve been working extra hours, hoping to secure a promotion, and I’ve missed countless little moments with Megan and Leo. A quiet Thanksgiving felt like the perfect way to reconnect.
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