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