I pulled into the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my tires, expecting the warm, chaotic embrace of a family Thanksgiving. Instead, the house stood silent, its windows dark against the gray November sky. I had driven four hours with a car packed full of gifts and specialty ingredients, anticipating the smell of roasting turkey and the roar of a football game on the TV. When I unlocked the front door, the silence that greeted me was heavy, almost suffocating. The air inside was cold, the thermostat evidently turned down low.
Walking into the living room, I found the only sign of life: my husband’s stepfather, Victor, sitting alone in his rocking chair. He was wrapped in a thin blanket, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. On the side table next to him lay a piece of lined paper. I picked it up, and the handwriting was unmistakably my husband’s. “Gone on a cruise with my ex,” it read casually, as if he were leaving a grocery list. “You’ll stay home and take care of stepdad, he needs you.”
I froze, the paper trembling in my fingers as the blood drained from my face. I read the second part, scrawled in hasty cursive: “Gone on a Caribbean cruise with Hannah. Mom decided to come too since she needed a break. You’ll stay home and take care of Victor, he needs you. Back Monday. Brady.” I read it twice, certain there must be some mistake. The paper fluttered to the kitchen counter as my hand went numb.
“He’s not coming back until Monday, is he?” The raspy voice behind me made me jump. I turned to see Victor watching me from the doorway. He was leaning heavily on his cane, looking frail, but his blue eyes were far too alert for the decrepit, senile old man Brady had described to me over the phone.
“No,” I managed, my voice barely audible, choking on the shock. “No one is.”
“They’ve all gone on a cruise,” Victor said, nodding slowly as if he had expected this exact scenario. “Left you with the dirty work, didn’t they? Classic Brady move.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, sinking into a kitchen chair, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me. “We’ve been planning this Thanksgiving dinner for months. His mother was supposed to host. Everyone was coming.” I pulled out my phone and tried Brady’s number again. It went straight to voicemail, just like the previous three attempts.
Victor shuffled to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of water. “Been like this all week. Quiet as a tomb. They left Tuesday morning.” He poured himself a glass with slightly shaking hands. “Didn’t even stock the fridge properly. Surviving on stale crackers and tap water since they left. Hope you brought groceries.”
I hadn’t brought staples, only contributions for a feast. I’d brought fresh cranberries, sweet potatoes, and the ingredients for my special apple pie. These were contributions to what was supposed to be a family celebration, not survival provisions for an abandoned holiday. Just then, my phone pinged with a notification. With a surge of desperate hope thinking it might be Brady explaining this was a sick joke, I quickly checked it.
It wasn’t a text. It was an Instagram alert. Brady’s sister had tagged him in a photo. With trembling fingers, I opened the app. The image knocked the wind out of me. There was Brady, standing on the sun-drenched deck of a cruise ship, his arm wrapped tight around a young blonde woman I recognized as Hannah, the “work colleague” he’d mentioned increasingly often these past few months.
They were holding champagne flutes, toasting the camera with bright, carefree smiles. The caption read: “#NewBeginnings Caribbean getaway with @BradyMitchell and family.” Family. The word stung like salt rubbed into an open wound. I scrolled through more photos. There was Brady’s mother, Elaine, sipping a cocktail by the pool, looking anything but like a woman who needed a “break” from the exhausting burden of caretaking.
Another photo showed Brady and Hannah at what appeared to be a romantic, candlelit dinner. The post was time-stamped two days ago, which meant this had been planned long before Brady told me we were expected at his mother’s for Thanksgiving. “Find something interesting?” Victor asked, studying my face with a mixture of pity and resolve.
I turned the phone screen toward him, unable to hide the screen or my tears. “They’re on a cruise with Hannah from his office. The one he said was just a colleague.” My voice cracked, fracturing under the weight of the betrayal. “They’ve been planning this. While I was buying gifts and taking time off work for what I thought was a family Thanksgiving.”
Victor nodded grimly, not looking at the screen. “Hannah’s been in the picture at least three months. She’s called here asking for Brady several times. Pretty voice, terrible laugh.”
I stared at him, stunned. “You knew?”
“I know a lot of things they don’t think I notice,” he said, tapping his temple with a gnarled finger. “Mine’s still sharp, despite what Brady tells everyone.”
My thoughts raced from the emotional betrayal to the practical reality. Our finances. With shaking hands, I opened our banking app. My breath hitched. Three days ago, there was a withdrawal for $5,200. It was almost our entire savings. Money we’d been meticulously putting aside for a down payment on a house. The house Brady had promised we’d start looking for after the holidays.
“He took our savings,” I whispered, showing Victor the screen, the numbers blurring before my eyes. “All of it.”
Victor wasn’t surprised. “They’ve been doing the same to me for years. Taking a little here, a little there. ‘For your care, Victor,’ they say. Meanwhile, the heat’s turned down to save money. My medications are sometimes delayed, and Elaine buys herself another designer purse.”
I felt physically sick. This wasn’t just about a ruined Thanksgiving or even the treachery of an affair. This was a calculated abandonment—of me, of Victor, of responsibilities and promises. My phone rang again. It was my best friend, Leah, calling to wish me a happy Thanksgiving. I silenced it, unable to explain this humiliation just yet.
“There’s leftover soup,” Victor offered gently. “Not much of a Thanksgiving feast, but it’ll do.”
I looked around the kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink and empty takeout containers on the counter. They hadn’t even cleaned up before leaving to live it up in the Caribbean. Something hardened inside me, replacing the shock with a cold, burning anger. “No,” I said firmly. “We deserve better than leftover soup.” I grabbed my coat and purse. “I’m going to the grocery store. They might still have some turkey breasts and potatoes. We’re having a proper meal today.”
Victor looked surprised, then pleased. “Haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months. Brady always brings fast food when he bothers to come by.”
At the grocery store, my mind whirled with questions and emotions. How long had Brady been planning to leave me? Was our entire five-year marriage just a convenient arrangement he could discard the moment something better came along? Mechanically, I selected a small turkey breast, potatoes, and some fresh vegetables, barely registering the other last-minute shoppers around me who looked stressed but happy.
When I returned, Victor had managed to clear the kitchen counter and was sitting at the table with a stack of papers. “What’s all this?” I asked, setting down the groceries.
“Evidence,” he replied, his blue eyes suddenly steely. “Bank statements, medical records, documented neglect. I’ve been keeping track for months.” He pushed a folder toward me. “Brady and Elaine think I’m just a burden waiting to die. They don’t know I’ve been watching them strip my accounts while providing minimum care.”
I glanced at the papers. There were detailed notes, account statements showing suspicious transfers, and copies of medical recommendations that had been clearly ignored. “Why are you showing me this?” I asked, unsettled by his methodical documentation.
Victor leaned forward, suddenly looking less frail and more like the banker he once was. “Because you’ve been wronged too, Jade. And because I don’t have much time left.” He tapped a medical report on the top of the stack. “Terminal cancer. Three months at most.”
I sat down heavily across from him. “I’m so sorry, Victor.”
He waved away my sympathy. “Don’t be sorry. Be smart.” He looked at me with unexpected intensity. “They think they’ve left you with a burden, but they’ve actually given us an opportunity.”
“An opportunity for what?”
Victor’s thin lips curved into a smile that transformed his face. “For justice.” He reached for a sealed envelope and slid it across the table. “Inside is my real will and trust documents. Not the one Brady and Elaine think exists.”
I didn’t touch the envelope immediately. “Victor, I don’t understand.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied me. After a moment, he simply said, “Shall we begin?”
Those three words hung in the air between us, loaded with possibility and hidden meaning. Before I could respond, he explained his proposition. I would help him document the family’s neglect and betrayal. I would assist with his final arrangements. In return, he would ensure I’d be taken care of financially after he was gone. The family who abandoned us both would lose everything they thought was coming to them.
