My Thanksgiving dinner creation was a success. The boy and I are watching a little football. We're all taking turns explaining to my father-in-law that this is his house, the car in the garage is his, and that he has lived here for eleven years. He is convinced that this can't be true because why in God's name would anyone choose to retire to Delaware. I agree, but keep my mouth shut.
Football continues. Dallas is losing, which is good, but Washington is winning, which is bad. Some hushed muttering echoes from the kitchen. My mother-in-law exits the kitchen, looking chipper, but in a forced way. All is quiet. My father-in-law checks to see if anyone has stolen the cars for the fifteenth time.
My lovely bride comes in, stands in front of the football game and glares. "There's only one rule, right? And what is it?"
"Don't listen to Dad?" my former son answers.
"Besides that," she corrects him. "The one rule is: don't EVER tell me what to do." We both sink deeper into the sofa, relieved and thankful that neither of us had broken this most obvious of rules. "It's really very simple!" She turns around and returns to the kitchen, where her own mother apparently made this grave error.
"This is my house?" comes a voice from a bedroom. "Yes, dear," comes the response.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!