Chapter 1

The kitchen clock read 6:04 AM. I'd been awake for an hour already.

My hands moved automatically—basting the twenty-pound turkey, checking the oven temperature, stirring the cranberry sauce. The house was still quiet. Conrad and his three kids wouldn't be up for another two hours at least. That was fine. I needed the time.

Fifteen people were coming for Thanksgiving dinner. Fifteen plates, fifteen sets of silverware, fifteen portions of everything. I'd made a list three days ago: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, green bean almondine, Brussels sprouts with bacon, cranberry sauce, dinner rolls, apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan pie.

My lower back ached. I'd been on my feet since five, and I could already feel the familiar tightness spreading up my spine. Seven years of this. Seven Thanksgivings.

I pulled the turkey out to baste it again. The skin was turning golden. Perfect.

"Morning."

I jumped. Sloane stood in the doorway, her blonde hair in a messy bun, wearing silk pajamas that probably cost more than my weekly grocery budget. She was Conrad's oldest—twenty-five, beautiful, and never let anyone forget it.

"Morning, sweetie," I said. "You're up early."

She walked to the counter and picked up a piece of the sourdough I'd baked yesterday. "Is this regular butter?"

I glanced at the butter dish. "Yes. Why?"

Her nose wrinkled. "Margot. You know Hunter's family only eats organic European butter."

Hunter was her fiancé. His family was coming today—two more people I'd added to the list last week.

"The stores were closed by the time I remembered," I said. "I can run out when they open—"

"Forget it." She dropped the bread back on the plate. "God, Mom never would've made this kind of mistake."

Mom. Caroline. Conrad's first wife. Dead for six years, but still the standard I could never meet.

"I'm sorry," I said automatically.

Sloane was already walking away.

I went back to the potatoes. Peel, chop, rinse. Peel, chop, rinse. My hands were getting raw from the cold water, but I had forty potatoes to get through.

At nine, Preston came down. Conrad's middle child, twenty-three, fresh out of college. He worked for his father's company now—or "worked," since as far as I could tell, he mostly showed up late and left early.

He grabbed one of the dinner rolls cooling on the rack.

"These are kind of dry," he said around a mouthful.

"They need butter," I said. "They just came out—"

"Nah, I'll just grab Tim Hortons on my way to Dave's."

Dave was his friend. They were watching the game before dinner.

"Dinner's at one," I reminded him.

"Yeah, yeah." He was already heading for the door.

I looked down at the twenty-four rolls I'd spent an hour making. Too dry.

By noon, the kitchen looked like a war zone. Every pot I owned was in use. The oven timer kept beeping. I had gravy simmering, potatoes boiling, the turkey resting, pies cooling.

My phone buzzed. A text from my daughter Ivy: Sorry Mom, picking up extra shift at the coffee shop. Will be there by 2. Love you.

Ivy. My actual daughter. Twenty years old, working her way through state college because Conrad said she should "learn to be independent" and take out loans instead of him helping with tuition. Meanwhile, his three kids had gone to private schools their entire lives, and he'd paid for everything without blinking.

I texted back: No worries sweetie. See you soon.

At one o'clock, everyone gathered in the dining room. Fifteen people around the table I'd spent an hour setting this morning. Conrad's business partners and their wives. Hunter's parents. Conrad's three kids. My daughter's chair was empty.

I'd just set down the turkey when Conrad stood up.

"Before we eat, I want to say a few words," he said, that warm smile on his face that used to make my heart skip. "I'm so grateful to have everyone here today. To my beautiful children—Sloane, Preston, Willa—you make me proud every single day."

Sloane beamed. Preston was already reaching for the wine.

"To my mother, who couldn't be here but who taught me the meaning of family. To my dear Caroline, who I know is watching over us."

My hands were folded in my lap. I could feel my nails digging into my palms.

"And to all of you, our friends and extended family. Thank you for making this day special. Let's eat."

He sat down. Everyone applauded.

No one looked at me.

I'd been in the kitchen since six AM. I'd cooked for fifteen people. I'd set the table, bought the groceries, planned the menu, baked three pies from scratch.

And Conrad had thanked a dead woman before he'd thanked me.

Actually, he hadn't thanked me at all.

"Margot, could you bring out the gravy boat?" Sloane called from her seat. "I think you forgot it."

"Of course." I went back to the kitchen.

The gravy boat was sitting right where I'd left it, on the counter next to the stove. I'd made three kinds of gravy. Turkey gravy, vegetarian gravy for Hunter's mother, and mushroom gravy because Willa had decided she was trying vegetarianism this month.

I brought them all out. Sloane didn't say thank you.

Dinner was loud. Everyone was talking, laughing, passing dishes. I sat at the end of the table, the seat closest to the kitchen. Every few minutes someone needed something—more bread, more butter, more wine, more salt. I got up and down so many times I lost count.

By the time dessert came out, I'd barely touched my food. It was cold anyway.

After dinner, everyone moved to the living room to watch football. I started clearing the table.

Plates stacked on plates. Silverware clattering into the bus tub. Serving dishes with dried food stuck to the edges. The good china that I'd have to hand wash because it was Caroline's grandmother's set and Conrad would kill me if I put it in the dishwasher.

I'd just started on the mountain of pots when I heard the door crack open behind me.

"Mom?"

Ivy. She was still in her coffee shop uniform—black pants, black shirt, apron. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her eyes were red.

"Hey baby," I said. "How was work?"

She didn't answer. She just walked over and took the pot out of my hands.

"Let me help."

"You don't have to—"

"Mom." Her voice cracked. "Please. Let me help."

We stood there at the sink together, washing dishes in silence. Through the doorway, I could hear the TV. Someone scored a touchdown and everyone cheered. Conrad's laugh carried over the noise.

"I hate them," Ivy whispered.

"Don't say that."

"I do. I hate how they treat you. Like you're their servant."