My glow was mostly sweat from trying to survive on three hours of sleep and caffeine I barely had time to finish. Between the midnight cries, endless diaper changes, and the mental gymnastics of keeping another human alive, I’d lost all sense of time.

I hadn’t felt like myself in weeks.

So, when Thanksgiving rolled around, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to tackle my mother-in-law Brenda’s Martha Stewart-level expectations. Brenda’s Thanksgiving wasn’t just a dinner; it was a performance. She’s the kind of woman who obsesses over place settings, insists on family members contributing elaborate dishes, and still finds time to “graciously” host.

Normally, I’d step up and make something. Pies, casseroles, tarts, cheesecakes, you name it. But this year?

This year, I grabbed a store-bought pumpkin pie on the way to her house and called it a win.

Look, I knew that it wasn’t going to go down well. But I didn’t really care. After a year of IVF treatments, a pregnancy that was high-risk, and a baby who zapped my energy instantaneously, I was exhausted. Brenda would be fine.

Right?

I arrived balancing the baby strapped to my chest, a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, and the pie in one precarious hand. I felt like a walking circus act. Brenda opened the door, her smile tight, as it usually was when I showed up solo.

But it wasn’t my fault that James had been called onto a last-minute business trip.

Brenda’s eyes roamed me from head to toe. And when they finally landed on the pie, that smile fell faster than my self-esteem on a bad day.

“Clem, what’s this?” she asked, her voice clipped.

“Pumpkin pie, Brenda,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “I bought it from the artisanal bakery. I didn’t have time to bake anything…”

She cut me off with a sharp sigh.

“You couldn’t even make a simple dessert, Clem? Everyone else managed, and they all have jobs and children.”

I swallowed hard, trying to explain how hard things had been with James out of town for work. And the fact that everyone else had kids above five years old. Eve, my daughter, was the youngest, at four months old.

“It’s been a little chaotic, Brenda. Between the night feeds and just… surviving, I didn’t have the bandwidth to make anything.”

She raised a hand, silencing me mid-sentence.

“This is just lazy, Clementine,” she declared, loud enough for the entire house to hear. “You’re a mother now. You need to learn how to handle your responsibilities. James deserves so much better. Honestly. This baby deserves so much better.”

I felt my face flush with anger and humiliation. Where was the doting grandmother who ignored everyone else except the new baby? Where was the supportive mother-in-law who wanted to make sure that I was okay and managing?

Instead, the guests around us stopped their casual conversations and went eerily silent. Brenda’s best friend coughed awkwardly, while James’ sister, Sarah, shot me a wide-eyed look as if to say, What is she doing?

But still, no one stepped in. Not even to come and take my baby from me. Instead, I was holding Eve and the pumpkin pie, while the diaper bag lay at my feet.

Then Brenda delivered her final blow.

“Maybe you should go home and think about your priorities, Clem. And there’s really no point to you being here. James isn’t here anyway.”

She was kicking me out. Over a pie. What was wrong with this woman?

The baby, as if on cue, let out a sharp cry. My hands shook as I tried to adjust the straps on the carrier, fumbling to grab my things. Eve was hungry. I told myself that I didn’t need this.

I didn’t need Brenda’s approval. But tears blurred my vision as I headed for the door, cradling my baby and piecing together what shred of dignity I had left.

Before I could leave, the door swung open.

Standing there was James, suitcase in hand, and his dad, Frank, carrying a bag of last-minute groceries that Brenda must have needed.

Apparently, my husband had cut his trip short to surprise me for Thanksgiving, and Frank had gone to pick him up.

“I couldn’t miss Thanksgiving with my two favorite girls,” James said, setting his suitcase and the diaper bag to the side. “Especially with it being Eve’s first Thanksgiving.”

I sighed, which forced James to look at me. Like, truly look at me.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked from my tear-streaked face to Brenda’s defiant posture.

Brenda straightened, clearly caught off guard.

“Your wife brought a store-bought pie,” she started, her voice tinged with indignation. “It’s disrespectful.”

Frank let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

“Disrespectful? Brenda, half the dishes on this table were ordered because you didn’t know how to cook vegetarian dishes for Sarah.”

He gestured toward Sarah, who had suddenly become very interested in her wine glass.

Brenda’s face turned bright red.

“That’s… different,” she stammered.

“No, it’s not,” James said, stepping closer to me. “Mom, you kicked my wife out over a pie? She’s been handling everything on her own while I’ve been gone, and this is how you treat her? Unbelievable. Disappointing. Have you even held Eve since Clem brought her over?”

The baby let out another small whimper as if punctuating James’ words. Brenda opened her mouth, but for once, no words came out.

Finally, she muttered something.

“I didn’t hear that,” James said.

“I said I’m sorry,” she snapped.

Then she turned to me, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Please stay, Clem,” she said.

I glanced at James, who gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Let me just feed Eve upstairs and I’ll leave,” I said.

“Honey, stay,” he whispered. “For me, please.”

His eyes softened as he bent to kiss Eve’s head.

So I stayed.

The rest of the dinner was painfully awkward. Brenda avoided me, sticking to the far side of the table like I might infect her with store-bought shame. Sarah quietly refilled my glass of grape juice when she thought no one was looking, and Frank made a point of chatting with me about anything other than pies.

James continued to pile my plate with turkey and roast potatoes, and a cheesy broccoli casserole that I loved, too.

Finally, I felt seen.

After everyone left, Brenda found me in the kitchen. Eve was asleep and James and I didn’t want to wake her up. So, I was clearing out the kitchen. Brenda’s demeanor was softer now, almost hesitant as she walked into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier. It wasn’t fair,” she glanced down, fidgeting with the hem of her apron.

“I’ve just been stressed out about hosting, and I took it out on you. That was wrong.”

The apology surprised me.

I wanted to lash out, to tell her how humiliating everything had been. But something about her expression stopped me. She wasn’t just embarrassed; she looked genuinely remorseful.

“And especially after everything you’ve been through to get Eve, I should have known better. You’ve made James so happy, Clem. First by being his wife, and then giving him a baby.”

I nodded, accepting her apology more for James’ sake than my own. I didn’t expect much to change.

But a few days later, Frank showed up at my house unannounced. He said he wanted to check in on the baby, and me. I appreciated the gesture, especially when he started coming by regularly to help out.

A week after that, Brenda tagged along.

She was holding two cups of takeaway coffee, a bag of cookies, and a box of donuts. She looked nervous, but determined to make things right.

“I thought you might need a break,” she said, stepping inside. “Here’s some treats, and point me to Eve. It’s grandma duty now.”

We sat in the living room, Brenda holding Eve, and we chatted like old friends.

It was surreal.

Brenda wasn’t just apologizing anymore. She was trying to make amends. Frank even winked at me as if to say, I told her to do this.

Since then, Brenda has shown up almost weekly, sometimes with coffee, sometimes with groceries. She’s offered to babysit so James and I could have a date night and even texted me a recipe for homemade pie.

We can bake one together next time.

Karma didn’t just humble her; it changed our relationship for the better. And now, whenever I see a store-bought pie, I can’t help but smile.

What would you have done?

If you’ve enjoyed this story, here’s another one for you |

My Mother-in-Law Claims I Ruined Thanksgiving Dinner

When Scarlet arrives at her first Thanksgiving dinner as Shaun’s wife, she finds herself looking at a dinner table with no empty seats for her. Instead, she sees a smirking mother-in-law and her husband’s ex-girlfriend sitting next to Shaun, giggling away at his jokes… What will Scarlet do?

Thanksgiving was supposed to be one of those easy family get-togethers, where I could just relax, catch up with everyone, and enjoy some delicious food.

At least, that was what I’d hoped for.

But things get tricky when your mother-in-law is involved, especially one who still insists on inviting your husband’s ex-girlfriend to every single holiday meal. I’d had a few years of dealing with Angela’s snarky, passive-aggressive remarks, but this year, she really outdid herself.

I’ll never forget how that dinner crashed and burned on Thanksgiving, and somehow, I’m the one who got blamed for it all.

Shaun, my husband, had gone to Angela’s place a bit earlier that day. He wanted to help her set up while I made the pies.

“I’ll go ahead and you take your time and make the pumpkin pie, honey,” he said. “And make the pecan pie extra sweet.”

He gave me a kiss on the head and bolted out the door. I wasn’t worried that he left early because Shaun was a menace when I was in the kitchen, always wanting my attention, causing a few burnt meals in the past.

Read the full story here.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.