What Happens At The Ending Of The Thanksgiving Story?

My husband promised we would spend Thanksgiving with my parents this year. Right before we left, he looked down at his phone and frowned. "Damn it. I forgot to change the delivery address again. Your parents' gift basket went to Cassia's place." I stood in the entryway with my fingers frozen around my scarf. For three years of marriage, Roman DeLuca had never removed Cassia Vail's address from his shopping apps. Whenever I asked him why, he always said the same thing: "Cassia and I grew up together. She’s basically family." The Italian espresso machine I wanted went to her apartment. He said her old machine had broken anyway. The sapphire bracelet for our wedding anniversary was signed for by her. He said asking for it back after she opened it would look petty. The sunflowers and baby's breath he promised me on Valentine's Day ended up in her hands. He said she had already put them in a vase, and he couldn't give me secondhand flowers. This time, I had reminded him for two weeks. The Thanksgiving basket had a low-sugar pumpkin pie, nut-free cookies, and a custom low-sodium turkey roll for my father. I had chosen every item myself. It still went to Cassia. I kept my voice steady. "Drive over and get it back." Roman's face darkened. "She already signed for it. What do you want me to do? We'll pick up wine and pastries on the way. Same thing." "It isn't the same. Get it back." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Elena, can you stop turning every little thing into a family trial? No one makes things awkward like you do." Every time something meant for me ended up with his childhood sweetheart, I asked him to get it back. Every time, I got some version of the same answer. I stopped arguing and watched him slam the door behind him. A few minutes later, I wiped my tears and texted my attorney. [Happy Thanksgiving. Please draft a divorce agreement for me. Thank you.]

My wife booked plane tickets for the whole family to travel over the Thanksgiving holiday. On the way to the airport, I suddenly noticed that everyone had a number floating above their head. The number above my wife's head was 60 years. Above my parents' heads and mine, it showed only six hours. As I wondered what the numbers meant, I looked through the car window and noticed the driver in the car beside us had only six seconds left. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... The moment the countdown reached zero, a speeding semi-truck slammed head-on into the car next to us. The car exploded into twisted metal, and debris flew everywhere right in front of my eyes. People around us screamed and cried for help, but I couldn't hear a thing. My whole body was trembling. Because six hours later, our flight was scheduled to take off.

All because I talked to a girl from school, my parents decided I was too young to date and sent me to a behavioral correction camp over winter break. I spent 14 days there before they came for me. When Mom reached for my backpack, I flinched and dropped to my knees. "Mom, I'm sorry. I'll carry my own things. Please don't touch me. You're the opposite sex." Her expression soured. "I told you to watch out for girls out there, not treat your own mother like one of them." I kept my head down and said nothing, because responding to the opposite sex was also a violation. On the drive home, Dad noticed me sitting rigid and perfectly still. He laughed, pleased. "Look at him. He's so well-behaved now." "It worked even better than I expected. We'll have our family dinner tonight and send him back in the morning. They need to straighten him out for good." I said nothing. I just turned and looked out the window. There would be no tomorrow. Tonight was my farewell gift to them.

Although I was the second child in the family, my mother loved me the most. When Dad bought my sister a new dress, she stayed up late knitting a sweater for me. When Grandma took my younger brother out for burgers, she baked me a homemade sponge cake. Until the New Year’s Eve dinner. Dad placed the big chicken drumstick onto my sister’s plate. Grandma immediately stuffed the other one into my brother’s. My mother hurriedly picked the chicken wing from her plate and placed it onto mine, smiling as she said, “I saved this especially for you.” The relatives laughed and teased, “Your family really has a clear division of love. Everyone spoils a different child. What a loving family.” The next second, I suddenly flipped the table. Under everyone’s stunned gaze, I grabbed that chicken wing and shoved it straight into my mother’s mouth.

Billionaire heiress Julia Wilson had come to loathe Christmas. Five years ago, it had shattered her life when she walked in on her husband, Ryan Thompson, in what appeared to be a compromising position with his secretary. The heartbreak had forced her into premature labor. By the time her twins, Lucien and Olivia, were born, she’d signed the divorce papers, severing ties with the man she once loved. Ever since, Julia buried her pain behind an iron-clad business persona, working herself and her employees to the bone every holiday season to escape the memories of her ruined Christmas. For Ryan Thompson, Christmas was no easier. A top-tier lawyer and businessman infamous for his undefeated courtroom record, Ryan’s victories felt hollow compared to the loss of his family. A misunderstanding had cost him his wife and the chance to watch his twins grow. For five years, he’d kept his distance, silently watching over Julia and their children, waiting for the right time to make amends and reclaim what he had lost. A chance encounter with a stranger leads him to his family’s doorstep, dressed as Santa Claus. Will Julia slam the door in his face, or will she accept him for the sake of their children? Can they rekindle their love and fulfill the twins’ Christmas wish, or will their relationship burn in the wake of his betrayal? What Julia doesn’t know is that fate—or perhaps the twins’ clever planning—has something else in store.

On Christmas Day, eight months pregnant, I struggled through the kitchen,cooking for my husband and his secretary. When I finally sat down, hoping to taste a piece of turkey I didn’t even get during Thanksgiving, my husband shoved me aside like I was nothing. He slid the turkey in front of his secretary instead. “Alison,you’re already so fat. Stop eating. Let Daisy have it—she deserves to enjoy your cooking.” Daisy，chewing on the turkey I had painstakingly prepared, had the audacity to mock me under the guise of playing truth or dare with my child. “So, what do you think your mom looks like?” “Mommy looks like a fat pig on a farm!” “Her stretch marks? They’re like disgusting worms crawling all over her. Even Santa would run for his life!” Their laughter erupted like daggers piercing me from all sides. Humiliation and rage burned through me as my dignity was stripped bare. I demanded an apology from that vile woman, but my husband—my husband!—turned his cold, cruel face toward me and said, “Get out of here.” Pregnant, exhausted, and humiliated, I stood there in shock. Then I snapped. I grabbed the Christmas cake and turkey and threw them in the trash. I walked out without looking back. This wretched family doesn’t deserve a second of my effort or a single ounce of my love!