Chapter 2
Frankie
By four-thirty this morning, I was already elbow-deep in turkey guts and regrets.
The kitchen smelled like nutmeg, stuffing, and tension—the holy trinity of any family holiday at my parents’ house. Mom paced between the stove and the counter like a general inspecting her troops, muttering to herself about timing and temperature and how “no one ever helps around here.”
Which was rich, considering I’d been up before sunrise basting a turkey that weighed more than my dog and chopping onions until my eyes looked like how they did the last time I’d been dumped.
“Mom,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. It’s not worth pointing out the obvious to her when she was in this state. I didn’t need her to go nuclear on me. “Do you want me to start on the rolls or—”
“Oh, I suppose I’ll do it,” she sighs dramatically. Snatching the tray out of my hand. “Must I do everything around here?”
I stare at her, wooden spoon in my other hand, doing everything in my power not to toss it across the room.
But it didn’t matter if I defended myself until I was blue in the face. She never heard me. She was too busy making sure every fork on the table was perfectly aligned, as if Martha Stewart herself was stopping by for a slice of pumpkin pie.
Meanwhile, Dad, waas living he best retired life on the recliner in the living room, snoring softly with the Thanksgiving Day Parade blaring in the background. Every now and then he’d wake up long enough to murmur, “Smells amazing, honey,” before dozing off again.
Everything has to be “perfect” before my brother and his family arrive. The golden child, the prodigal son, the one who’d given Mom and Dad actual grandchildren to brag about.
An hour later, I finally got the chance to run upstairs to shower and throw on something that didn’t smell like sage and despair. I was ready for a nap—or an escape plan.
I typed out a quick text message to my best friend, Jess, giving her the lowdown of how my family was driving me crazy and we haven’t even eaten yet.
I wait a beat to see if she’ll respond, but I’m sure she’s busy with her own family.
So I grab some clothes and toiletries out of my bag and head to the bathroom to get ready.
When I come back down stairs, Mom is at the front door, all smiles and lipstick, greeting my brother, his wife, and their two kids like they are celebrities.
“Harold, well you get in here?” she calls over her shoulder at my father, before turning back and pulling my brother into a hug. “Oh, finally the family is here!”
The family.
Right. Because apparently I’m just an unpaid intern to her.
I force a smile and give a half-hearted wave. But I’m only greeted with them peeling off all their coats and handing them to me like I was the coat check girl at the Ritz or something. Still I say nothing, biting my tongue, and hiding my frustration behind my smile. Screaming only on the inside.
After I take the coats and deposit them into the den, I head back into the kitchen.
I load up the serving bowls and platters and start taking them out to the table.
Everyone else is already starting to find their seats, laughing, and pouring wine.
By the time I come out with the last dish, the only seat left is the tiny wooden stool at the end of the table.
It’s meant for a child to use, of which we have two, but it’s me, the plus-sized spinster who is expected to sit on it and hope to god I don’t turn it into kindling.
“I really don’t think,” I start to say, looking around at everyone. I’m hoping it’s clear from my expression that they aren’t going to make me finish the sentence.
“Don’t be a problem, Frankie,” Mom says sweetly, but the hard look in her eye is a warning to me to not make waves. “Just sit down.”
My jaw clenches so tight I wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t crack a molar in my anger.
But as always, I do what I’m told. I lower myself gingerly on the stool, testing the strength before I put my full weight on it.
It creaks loudly from the strain, and I have to breathe through the embarrassment and fury simmering in my chest.
Mom clicks her fork on her glass and lifts it. “Before we eat, I just want to say how thankful I am this year.”
Her gaze moves around the table. “For my wonderful husband, who provided this family such a beautiful home to be together in. From my amazing son, who works so hard and loves his family deeply. And for my lovely daughter-in-law, who has given us the two most precious grandchildren and grandmother can ask for.”
I wait for her eyes to find mine, wondering what kind thing she will have to say about me for once.
“And of course, I’m grateful Frankie hasn’t found anyone because then who would help me in the kitchen for the holidays?”
Everyone chuckles.
Except me.
A familiar ache clenches tightly in my chest and I stare down at my empty plate to blink away the hot sting of tears in my eyes. My appetite for all the food I spent hours helping to prepare, no longer looking or smelling at all apetizing.
The sounds of the conversation and movement around the table fade into nothing but a hum of background noise in my head. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears and one clear thought in my head—never again.
Never again was I going to sit at this table and pretend I didn’t notice the way they looked right through me. Never again was I going to be the helper, the extra, the one who made it easier for everyone else to shine.
I force a smile one last time, but it’s a brittle, breaking thing.
And I made a promise—this would be the last holdiay I spent feeling small.
By the time I got home that night, my feet ached, my hair smelled like gravy, and my heart felt about two sizes too small. My apartment was dark and quiet. The kind of quiet that usually made me sad but tonight it felt like a relief.
I kicked off my shoes, dropped my overnight bag by the door, and collapsed on the couch—face first into the pillows. I’m not sure how long I laid that way, but it wasn’t until I heard the faint ping of a text message in my pocket.
I groan into the pillows before turning over and fishing it out of my pocket.
Jess: You have to see this. It’s the funniest thing I’ve read all day!
There is a link. I sigh, thumb hovering over it. Probably another meme about dating apps or men who think “owning a truck” counts as a personality.
Still, I click. I could use a good laugh right about now.
The link leads me to a classified ad of some sort, written like something out of a bad Hallmark parody.
Get Merry’d to the Mountain Man
I need a wife before Christmas. Don’t ask why.
It’s not about love—it’s about keeping what’s mine.
If you can fake “happily ever after” for a few weeks in a cabin buried in snow, you’ll be taken care of.
Warning: I come with a beard, a temper, and a woodstove that’s older than both of us.
Serious inquiries only.
I can’t help the snort that comes out of me. “He’s not subtle. I’ll give him that.”
But I can’t stop myself from reading it again. And again.
There’s something about it. Maybe it’s the blunt honesty, or the strange mix of desperation and pride, that sparks something deep in my chest. It could also be exhaustion or the wine that I consumed over dinner.
Or maybe it was the fact that my mother’s words were still echoing in my head like a bad song stuck on repeat.
I’m grateful Frankie hasn’t found anyone.
My jaw tightens. “We’ll see about that.”
And I hit reply.