My husband, Jake, has always been eager to impress, especially during the holidays. So, when he told me, “This year, I’m cooking the turkey. I’ve got a secret recipe, Jen”

I thought it was sweet. A little strange, maybe, since I’ve always handled the turkey, but sweet. “All right,” I said with a smile. “Just let me know if you need any help.”

“I won’t,” he replied quickly — almost too quickly. “This is going to be special.”

It really was! What he did to the turkey made me question our marriage.

On Thanksgiving morning, Jake was in full swing. He shooed me out of the kitchen repeatedly, like some kind of culinary bodyguard.

Hours later, Jake presented the turkey with the flair of a magician unveiling his greatest trick. It was stunning — golden brown, perfectly crisp. My mom clapped. My mother-in-law Patricia raised her eyebrows in what I thought was impressed approval.

But the moment I took a bite, my heart sank. “JAKE!” I spluttered, staring at him. “WHAT IS THIS?!”

My mother-in-law, mid-chew, spat hers into a napkin with dramatic flair. “Oh, Jake. Oh no.”

Jake’s face flushed red.”It’s a glaze!” he said defensively. “Brown sugar, maple syrup, and marshmallow fluff. It’s different! It’s creative!”

“Creative?” I echoed. “It tastes like someone dropped a turkey in a vat of something at Willy Wonka’s factory.”

At the time, my brother-in-law, Steven, stifled a laugh. My biological mom pretended to focus on her mashed potatoes. Patricia, never one to miss an opportunity, shook her head with a dramatic sigh.

“This is why we don’t mess with tradition, Jake. Since you got married, Jen’s been the turkey girl. Tradition, Jake. Tradition.”

Jake stayed quiet, his hand twitching toward the wine bottle. Like he wanted to grab it and drown out the awkwardness with some good old fermented grapes.

Most of our guests left our home. Jake retreated to the den to lick his wounds, while I stayed behind to clean the kitchen.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” I said. “You chill in there, and I’ll be with you soon. I stashed a pumpkin pie earlier, because I know we like it with cold whipped cream.”

I was trying to him realize that it had been a mistake, and nothing was wrong with that.

I tossed scraps into the trash, and saw a crumpled piece of paper caught my eye. I smoothed it out, revealing a handwritten recipe.

I saw the name at the bottom of the page.

Sarah.

Sarah. Jake’s ex-wife.

I stared at the card. Why on earth would he choose her? while he could have gone to many people for a recipe — Google searches included.

I stormed into the living room with the recipe card in my hand. Jake looked up from his football game rerun, his face draining of color. “Care to explain this?” I asked.

“I… uh… I just wanted to make something special, Jen. Sarah worked as a cook for a while, when she was into catering. And I thought she’d… you know… have some good ideas for me.”

“You thought Sarah would have the answer?” I interrupted, my voice rising. “Not me, your wife, the person who has been cooking almost all of your meals, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners included, for years?”

Jake had no response. “I just… I didn’t want to mess up,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re so good at it, and I thought if I asked, you’d take over. I wanted to prove that I could do it all on my own.”

“And you couldn’t just ask me for a little help?” I snapped. “Not even for my suggestions? Instead, you went to your ex-wife?”

Jake winced. “Jen, it wasn’t like that…”

“No?” I shot back. “Then what was it like?”

Jake’s explanation felt weak. If he was too insecure to ask for my help, what did that say about our relationship? And Sarah? Why her?

The next morning, Jake gave me a mug of coffee and a slice of pumpkin pie.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m really sorry, love. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to impress everyone, and I… I messed up royally.”

I nodded, keeping calm, as I had instructed myself all night.

“I understand wanting to impress people, Jake. But here’s the thing — next time you want advice, like good, solid advice, maybe start with the person you married. And for the record? Sarah sabotaged you. This recipe? Unless it was for some sickly sweet cereal treat, it was revenge, plain and simple.”

“You think…”

“Oh, I don’t think, Jake,” I said firmly. “I know.”

“Goodness, I’m such an idiot.”, Jake said.

Jake couldn’t seem to meet my eyes for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend. He apologized again, twice, but it didn’t erase the lingering doubt.

My mil, of course, added fuel to the fire. “Well, at least he learned his lesson,” she remarked with a smug sip of her wine.

Jake took our dog for a walk, leaving Patricia and me alone, dissecting the entire turkey fiasco.

“Do you really think he went to her for help?” I asked my mother-in-law. “That there is nothing else going on?”

“Darling, Sarah ch:ea:ted on him. She broke his little heart, so it can’t be anything more. I think our foolish man just wanted to impress the women in his life, so he reached out to the only other one he knew well.”

“I’m doubting everything.” I admitted, picking up Patricia’s glass of wine and taking a sip.

“Jen, he adores you. He’s just a bit stupid sometimes. But if you think that a bigger and more important conversation needs to be had, then go ahead, darling. Do it.”

I nodded.

By Sunday night, I was exhausted — emotionally, mentally, physically. That Thanksgiving turkey didn’t just leave a bad taste in my mouth. It left cracks in something I thought was solid.

The truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever fully trust Jake’s judgment again. Not just in the kitchen but in everything. And as we lay in bed that night, his soft apology didn’t make those doubts disappear.

For now, I’m still here. But I can’t shake the feeling that something shifted this Thanksgiving, and once things crack, it’s hard to piece them back together again.