The old woman watched as a single strand of gray hair floated down into the pot of steaming potatoes. She smiled as she listened to the voices coming from the other room where her family was gathered. That should be a nice treat for someone, she thought. Twenty-three people in her house and not one of them offering to help the old woman put Thanksgiving dinner on the table. Asking would do no good either; they always had their excuses at the ready, too busy yapping and gabbing to pitch in.

The thought that she had raised five of the most selfish brats imaginable only became bearable as she realized that they in turn were raising worse brats of their own. For over forty years now, Roberta Miller had done this yearly obligation alone. Yet Roberta knew her days were numbered and this would be the last traditional meal her family could force upon her. This year, the meal would be perfect in spite of their lack of help.

The thumping sounds and shaking dishes told her that the younger of her grandchildren and great grandchildren were upstairs jumping on the beds. Laughter and loud voices filtered into the kitchen from the family room where the adults had gathered to drink her bourbon, eat her chocolate and put their asses and feet on her highly polished wooden furniture.

Yes, this year would be the last. The selfish ingrates had no idea of what lay in store for them at this dinner. Roberta smiled as she opened the oven to check the twenty five-pound turkey roasting there. Almost done, she thought. Grabbing a pair of potholders, she lifted the pot of potatoes and shuffled her way to the sink and waiting colander, using the counter to support her as she went. She poured the hot steaming potatoes into the colander, waited for them to drain, then transferred them to the bowl and started the mixer.

Using the counter again to support her, she went back to the stove. This is going to be even trickier, she thought, as she prepared to lift the heavy turkey from the oven. If I don’t fall on my face doing this, the rest of the meal will be easy. She slid the rack out of the oven cavity, watching the weight bearing it down almost to an angle where it could slip off if she didn’t hurry. She grabbed a pair of oven mitts, and seized the roaster by the handles, took a deep breath and lifted it up to the empty counter.