The first unpleasant comment came before anyone had even started eating.

The second made me realize I had spent nearly two full days preparing Thanksgiving dinner for people who had never planned to appreciate any of it.

I stood inside my mother-in-law Diane’s spotless dining room wearing the same burgundy sweater I had been cooking in since five that morning.

The table was overflowing with food I had made myself.

Rosemary turkey.

Maple-glazed carrots.

Garlic mashed potatoes.

Green-bean casserole.

Cranberry-orange sauce.

Pumpkin cheesecake.

And three baskets filled with homemade rolls.

My husband, Eric, had spent the entire week proudly telling everyone that I was “taking care of Thanksgiving.”

What he really meant was that I was doing all of it.

Then Diane walked into the room.

She studied the table without tasting a single thing.

Finally, she looked at me and said,

“You know, Eric’s ex Vanessa was always a much better cook.”

Conversation stopped.

Eric’s sister Brooke lowered her face toward her wineglass, but I could see the smile she was trying to hide.

Eric stared at his plate.

I waited.

Surely my husband would say something.

He didn’t.

Diane picked up one of the rolls I had baked that morning and examined it between two fingers.