I returned home for Thanksgiving, eager to embrace the holiday spirit. The house stood silent—save for Victor, my husband’s stepfather, seated in a rocking chair

The note trembled in my fingers as the blood drained from my face. 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, leaning heavily on his cane but with eyes far too alert for the decrepit old man Brady had described. No, I managed my voice barely audible. No one is.

They’ve all gone on a cruise. Victor nodded slowly as if he’d expected this exact scenario. Left you with the dirty work, didn’t they? Classic Brady move.

I had arrived at the Mitchell family home just 30 minutes earlier, my car packed with gifts and ingredients for Thanksgiving dinner. The silent house should have been my first clue, no delicious aromas of roasting turkey, no football game blaring from the living room television, no cheerful greetings. Instead I found only an unheated house and Brady’s stepfather sitting alone in a rocking chair, looking at me with those uncomfortably perceptive blue eyes.

I don’t understand, I said seeking into a kitchen chair. 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. 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. Hope you brought groceries.

I hadn’t. I’d brought cranberries, sweet potatoes and my special apple pie ingredients. Contributions to what was supposed to be a family feast, not provisions for an abandoned holiday.

My phone pinged with a notification. With a surge of hope thinking it might be Brady, I quickly checked it. Instead 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 from me.

Brady standing on a cruise ship deck, his arm around a young blonde woman I recognized as Hannah, his work colleague he’d mentioned increasingly often in these past months. They were holding champagne flutes, toasting the camera. The caption read, hashtag new beginnings Caribbean getaway with at Brady Mitchell and family.

Family. The word stung like salt in an open wound. I scrolled through more photos.

There was Brady’s mother Elaine sipping a cocktail, looking anything but like someone who needed a break from caring for Victor. Another photo showed Brady and Hannah at what appeared to be a romantic 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. I turned the phone screen toward him. They’re on a cruise with Hannah from his office.

The one he said was just a colleague. My voice cracked. 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. 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. You knew.

I know a lot of things they don’t think I notice. He tapped his temple with a gnarled finger. Mine’s still sharp, despite what Brady tells everyone…