“She actually can cook,” my mother said flatly.
Nobody moved.
My brother gave this fake laugh like she was helping him tease me. “C’mon, Mom—”
“No,” she cut in. “I’m serious.”
The whole table went quiet after that because my mother almost never interrupted anybody.
She looked down at his plate. “You’ve been doing this to your sister since high school. Somebody compliments her, and suddenly you need to make a joke.”
My brother smirked awkwardly. “It’s not that deep.”
“Yes, it is.”
That landed hard.
Even Melissa stopped pretending to be embarrassed and just stared at him.
Mom folded her napkin carefully and kept going. “Do you know how many holidays your sister cooked completely alone while you showed up thirty minutes late carrying one store-bought casserole your wife reheated?”
My brother’s face immediately changed.
A couple people suddenly got very interested in their drinks.
Then my mother looked at the turkey. “And for the record, this bird is moist. You just say it’s dry every year before you’ve even swallowed the first bite.”
I actually felt my stomach drop hearing somebody finally say it out loud.
My brother tried chuckling again. “Wow. Everybody’s sensitive tonight.”
But this time nobody laughed with him.
Not one person.
Then Melissa quietly set down her fork and said, “Honestly… I’ve asked him before why he does this.”
That shut him up completely.
My mother leaned back in her chair. “Your sister spends days making this holiday happen, and every year you turn her into the punchline five minutes into dinner.”
Dead silence.
Then my uncle cleared his throat, took another bite of turkey, and muttered, “Turkey tastes fine to me.”
And just like that, the whole table slowly stopped praising Melissa’s casserole and started eating my food in awkward silence while my brother sat there red-faced for the rest of Thanksgiving.