The Thanksgiving He Sent Away

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.]

I bought replacement gifts from a boutique grocery store and went to my parents' house in Evanston alone.

My mother opened the door and looked behind me. "Where is Roman? I thought you two were coming together."

My father frowned. "Did something happen on the DeLuca side again?"

I set the last-minute wine and cake on the dining table and smiled. "He got pulled into a group call. He might come by later."

My parents didn’t press. They knew Roman was the heir of the DeLuca family and the future Don of Chicago. Casinos, docks, private clubs, and off-the-record deals could call him away at any hour, so a sudden emergency sounded reasonable enough.

My mother only squeezed my hand and said that as the future Donna, I would have to get used to the weight of his position.

I had barely sat down when my phone lit up.

Cassia had updated her story. Nine photos. One caption.

[Someone remembered I hate spending Thanksgiving alone. Thank you for the surprise.]

In the photos, the custom basket I had picked was already open. The pumpkin pie sat in neat slices. The turkey roll lay on a silver platter. The nut-free cookies sat beside a glass of red wine.

In the last photo, a man's hand was cutting meat for her. The hand was long and clean, with a pale scar across the web between the thumb and index finger.

I knew that hand. It was Roman's.

I also saw his left ring finger. His wedding band was gone.

Our mutual friends were laughing in the comments.

[You two look like the real couple.]

[The title of Mrs. DeLuca was always meant to come back to Cassia.]

I liked the post.

Roman's messages came in a few minutes later.

[Elena, you kicked me out on a holiday. What was I supposed to do, eat a cold sandwich in the car?]

[If you want to make a scene at home, fine. Don't drag Cassia into it. She's already having a hard day.]

I scrolled through our old messages.

[Did the hot chocolate you ordered for me get here yet? It's been two hours.]

[Forgot to change the address. It went to Cassia.]

[Can you delete her address? Can you set our home as the default?]

[It's one hot chocolate, Elena. Do you have to make yourself look this cheap? Order another one if you want it so badly.]

I had waited two hours and got called cheap for caring.

Farther up was our second wedding anniversary.

[Did the gift you ordered for me arrive?]

[It went to Cassia. She already opened it. I'll make it up to you next time.]

Before that, there was the perfume he promised to bring home from a business trip, the old art book I had wanted for months, and the cashmere wrap my mother wanted for her birthday.

Every time, he said he forgot to change the address.

How many times could one man forget the same thing in three years?

Maybe he never forgot. Maybe the person he meant to send things to had always been Cassia.

That evening, I finished dinner with my parents and left early with an excuse.

When I got back to the lake-view apartment Roman and I had shared for three years, my attorney had already emailed the divorce agreement.

I printed it and reached for a pen.

The door unlocked before I signed.

Roman walked in with two black shopping bags. For once, he looked tired and almost sorry.

"The basket is gone," he said, setting the bags in front of me. "I got the two cashmere coats for your parents back. That's on me. I booked Velluto for tonight. Let me take you out and make it up to you."

I didn’t tell him the basket had not been replaceable.

My father had just had a cardiac exam and could not eat high-sodium food. My mother had a serious nut allergy. I had spent days checking that bakery's nut-free production line.

I also didn’t tell him I hated Velluto.

The old Italian restaurant was known for hazelnut sauce, rare meat, and heavy cream. I had told him more than once.

When a man didn’t care, repetition only taught him to call you difficult.