I had been looking forward to Thanksgiving all year. Not because of the turkey or the parade or even the pie, though those certainly didn’t hurt, but because of the peace. For once, it was going to be quiet. My parents had gone on a cruise to escape the November chill, my sister had flown to Vermont with her girlfriend, and my in-laws had decided to spend the holiday with cousins in Michigan.
That left just me, my husband, and our eight-year-old daughter. A small, cozy meal in our dining room, fire in the fireplace, maybe board games after. I’d already planned the menu—one modest turkey breast instead of a full bird, mashed potatoes, roasted Brussels sprouts, and a pumpkin pie with a ginger-snap crust. Simple. Manageable. Serene.
At least, that’s what I thought.
The first sign of trouble came on Tuesday before Thanksgiving. My husband, who worked as a project manager for a mid-sized tech company, came home unusually buoyant. He kissed me on the cheek, dropped his bag by the door, and announced, “You’re not going to believe how excited everyone is for Thanksgiving this year.”
I hummed absentmindedly, chopping carrots for dinner. “I imagine most people are.”
“No, I mean really excited. Like, over-the-moon excited.” He leaned against the counter, grinning as though he’d just pulled off a coup.
Something about that smile made my stomach tighten. “Why are your coworkers’ holiday plans relevant to us?”
He hesitated a fraction of a second too long. “Well,” he began, dragging the word out like a child about to admit to breaking a vase, “funny story… they don’t really have any plans. So, I thought—hey, we’ve got plenty of space, and Thanksgiving is all about togetherness, right?—why not invite them over?”
My knife froze mid-chop. “Invite who over?”
“Just a few people from the office,” he said breezily, as if he were suggesting we pick up extra napkins.
“How many is ‘a few’?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated by the tile floor. “Fifteen?”
I turned slowly, the carrot still in my hand like a makeshift dagger. “Fifteen people? You invited fifteen coworkers to our Thanksgiving dinner without asking me?”
He raised his hands defensively. “I thought you’d be thrilled! You love hosting!”
“I love hosting when I’ve actually planned for it. When I have more than two days’ notice. When the guest list doesn’t multiply like rabbits.”
“They were so excited,” he said weakly. “I couldn’t say no.”
I stared at him, trying to decide whether to scream, laugh, or cry. “So instead you volunteered me to handle it?”
He offered a sheepish shrug, as if that might soften the blow.
And that’s when I decided: fine. If he wanted to surprise me with fifteen unexpected guests, then he was going to get a surprise right back. My revenge would be subtle, elegant, and—most importantly—delicious.
The next two days were a whirlwind. I scrapped my modest menu and drew up a new plan. If we were going to host a crowd, I’d need reinforcements. I ordered two massive turkeys from the butcher, along with enough potatoes, cranberries, and green beans to feed an army. But I didn’t stop there. Oh no.
My husband’s coworkers didn’t know me well. To them, I was just “Andrea, the wife,” the background figure who sometimes appeared at holiday parties. This was my chance to set the record straight—and to make my husband squirm in the process.
I crafted an ambitious menu, bordering on absurd. Not only the turkeys and traditional sides, but also three types of stuffing (cornbread, sourdough, and chestnut), maple-glazed carrots, creamed spinach, sweet potato casserole with brûléed marshmallows, cranberry-orange relish, pecan pie, apple crumble, and a chocolate tart with sea salt. On top of that, I added hors d’oeuvres: smoked salmon crostini, bacon-wrapped dates, and a cheese board that looked like it belonged in a glossy magazine spread.
My husband raised an eyebrow when he saw the grocery bill. “Don’t you think this is a bit… much?”
I smiled sweetly. “Oh, I thought you wanted everyone to feel welcome. Can’t have people going home hungry, can we?”
He paled slightly, realizing too late that he might have unleashed a force beyond his control.
By Thursday afternoon, our house smelled like a dream and looked like a showroom. Candles flickered in the windows, the table was set with our best china, and soft jazz floated through the air. My husband buzzed with nervous energy, darting from room to room as though checking for invisible flaws.
When the first guest arrived—a cheerful woman from accounting named Teresa—she gasped at the sight of the hors d’oeuvres spread. “Wow, Andrea, this looks incredible!”
“Thank you,” I said smoothly, handing her a glass of wine. “It’s nothing, really. Just a little something I threw together on short notice.”
One by one, the coworkers trickled in, shedding coats and marveling at the food. My husband basked in their admiration, clearly hoping their praise would erase his earlier sin.
But then the real fun began.
As we sat down to dinner, I made sure to seat him at the head of the table. Directly in front of him, I placed a handwritten menu card detailing every dish. At the bottom, in elegant calligraphy, I’d added: Prepared entirely by Andrea—without a single ounce of help from her husband.
The coworkers chuckled when they read it, nudging him playfully. He flushed crimson.
Throughout the meal, I played the gracious hostess, topping off wine glasses, sharing recipes, and gently steering the conversation. But every so often, I’d slip in a pointed remark.
“Oh, I wasn’t planning to make all this,” I said as I carved the turkey with precision. “But when I learned late Tuesday night that we’d be hosting a small army, I had to improvise.”
Gasps and sympathetic murmurs circled the table. My husband squirmed, stabbing at his mashed potatoes like they’d personally wronged him.
“Don’t worry,” I continued with a serene smile. “I thrive under pressure.”
By dessert, the coworkers were singing my praises. “You should open a restaurant!” one declared. “This is the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever had.”
I dabbed at my lips with a napkin. “Oh, thank you. But I couldn’t have done it without my husband’s contribution.”
His eyes flickered with hope—until I added, “After all, someone had to invite you all here without telling me. Inspiration strikes in mysterious ways.”
The table erupted in laughter. My husband laughed too, but it sounded strangled, like a balloon losing air.
The night wound down with coffee and brandy, people lingering around the fire as though reluctant to leave. They thanked me profusely, some even hugging me on the way out. “You’re amazing,” Teresa whispered. “If my husband ever tried to pull something like that, I’d have killed him.”
When the door finally closed behind the last guest, my husband collapsed onto the couch, looking like a man who’d survived a natural disaster.
“You could have warned me,” he muttered.
I arched an eyebrow. “Warned you? Remind me, who exactly invited fifteen extra people to dinner without so much as a text?”
He winced. “Fair point.”
I sat beside him, smoothing my skirt. “Consider this a lesson. Next time you want to play host, you’ll ask me first. Otherwise, you might not like the menu I come up with.”
His eyes widened. “You mean you weren’t even trying to kill me with all that food?”
“Oh, no,” I said sweetly. “That was just a warm-up.”
He groaned, covering his face with his hands. But beneath it, I caught the twitch of a reluctant smile.
In the days that followed, his coworkers wouldn’t stop talking about the dinner. They sent emails raving about the food, one even asking if I’d cater her Christmas party. My husband, meanwhile, became the butt of endless jokes at the office.
“Next time, maybe you should cook something too,” they teased. “Or at least set the table.”
He took it in stride, but every time he recounted the story, he made sure to add, “Andrea’s a miracle worker. I’ll never underestimate her again.”
And though I pretended to brush off the compliments, I couldn’t help but feel a little triumphant. After all, revenge is a dish best served cold—but sometimes, it’s even better with turkey, stuffing, and a slice of pumpkin pie.