My Mil Slapped Me For Choosing My Dying Mother Over A Thanksgiving Turkey. My Husband Watched And Did Nothing. I Just Cut The Power And Canceled Their Feast, So Why Do I Feel Like The Villain?

The Hospital and the Decision

The hallways of Mount Sinai Hospital always smelled of antiseptic. Emily sat on a plastic chair outside the intensive care unit. In her hand was a cup of vending machine coffee that had long gone cold. The paper cup had a generic convenience store logo and the coffee was the color of dishwater. She’d taken maybe three sips. Now she was debating whether to just throw the rest away.

The clock on the wall read 2:17 a.m. It was already past 9:00 p.m. when she had arrived at the hospital from her in-laws’ house. She had taken two subways and walked for 20 minutes. One of the wheels on her suitcase was broken and it made a grating noise the entire way.

Her mother was already out of surgery. The surgeon was a man in his 50s with gold-rimmed glasses and a habit of speaking with his arms crossed. He rattled off a series of medical terms: extensive intracranial hemorrhage, decompressive craniectomy, post-operative observation, possibility of a persistent vegetative state. Each word landed on top of her head like a lead weight.

“The most important thing now is to wait,” the doctor said finally. “The next 48 hours are critical.”

Her aunt was beside her, sobbing as if she couldn’t breathe. Emily didn’t cry. She just stared through the glass window of the ICU at the person lying there, tubes connected to every part of her body. Her mother’s head was wrapped in bandages, her face was ashen, and her lips were cracked and dry. The face that used to smile and say, “My daughter is the most beautiful girl in the world,” was now as lifeless as a faded black and white photograph.

Emily stood there for a long time. She couldn’t bring herself to leave until a nurse came and told her that visiting hours were over.

Now she was sitting in the hallway clutching a cold cup of coffee and staring blankly at a health poster on the opposite wall. Next to a picture of a smiling elderly man were the words in large font: “Prevent strokes. Start with managing your blood pressure.”

She didn’t know what her mother’s blood pressure was. She didn’t even know what her mother’s health had been like recently. The last time she’d seen her was three months ago. Her mother had come to the city to drop off some food and left after just two hours. Eleanor had made it clear she was an inconvenience, and Kevin had grumbled that it was awkward having her there with nothing to talk about.

“It’s okay, dear. I’ll come again soon,” her mother had said.

Watching her mother’s back disappear into the subway entrance that day, Emily had felt a sharp pang of anxiety in her chest, but she hadn’t run after her. She had just watched that small, thin back vanish into the crowd. Thinking back now, it felt like a premonition.

Emily looked down at the paper cup in her hand. She had squeezed it so hard that it was crumpled and creased at the edges. She set the coffee aside and pulled her phone out of her pocket. 17 unread messages, five missed calls—all from her in-laws. Eleanor had left eight voicemails, each one over a minute long. Emily knew what they said without even listening. It wouldn’t be concern for her mother’s condition. It would be a barrage of questions: “Why aren’t you back yet? What about Thanksgiving? What are we supposed to do with the ingredients? What am I going to tell the relatives when they get here?”

Kevin had sent three text messages.

The first: “Did you make it to the hospital?”

The second: “Mom is furious. You need to come back and apologize.”

The third: “Hey, is that catering stuff really coming tomorrow? I checked and there’s no delivery confirmation text.”

Emily stared at that third message for a long time. The scene at the house flashed through her mind: her mother-in-law kicking her suitcase, slapping her face, blood trickling from her mouth. Kevin standing 15 feet away in the hallway, holding his phone, doing nothing.

Is that catering stuff really coming tomorrow? That was what he was worried about.

Emily let out a small, mirthless laugh. It was a strange sound, silent, with only the corners of her mouth turning up, but her eyes were devoid of light. She opened the shopping app on her phone. After a few seconds of loading, her order from three days ago appeared.

Premium Thanksgiving Dinner Set. Total Payment: $870.

It included a pre-brined turkey, stuffing mix, gourmet gravy, seasonal fruits, traditional pies, a bottle of wine, and even a set of holiday-themed serving platters. Estimated delivery: the day before Thanksgiving, 9:00 a.m.

Emily’s finger hovered over the screen. The cancel order button was right there, bright red text on a white background. It stood out starkly.

A voice in the back of her mind whispered, “Don’t. You can’t do this. This will cause a huge problem. The family dinner is a big deal. Eleanor will go insane. Kevin will resent you forever.”

But another voice answered back, “My mother is lying in a hospital bed. My mother might become a vegetable. My mother might die. And my mother-in-law is worried about who’s going to cook a damn turkey? My husband is worried about whether a delivery will arrive on time?”

Did a single one of them ask, “How is your mother doing?” No. Not one of them. Not a single word.

Emily’s finger pressed the screen. A confirmation message popped up.

Are you sure you want to cancel this order? Once cancelled, the payment will be refunded to your account within 3 to 5 business days.

She pressed confirm. The screen refreshed and the order status changed from “Preparing for Shipment” to “Order Cancelled.”

Emily stared at those two words for 10 seconds. Then she opened her banking app. The credit card in her name was the household expense card. Kevin and Eleanor each had an authorized user card. All the household bills were paid from that account: utilities, gas, internet, the apartment maintenance fees—all on autopay. Financial management had always been Emily’s job, not because she wanted it, but because Eleanor found it bothersome.

“You’re the woman of the house, so naturally you should take care of these things,” her mother-in-law had said. So the card was issued in Emily’s name, and the monthly statements were sent to her phone.

But who spent the money? Emily didn’t buy clothes, didn’t go to the salon, didn’t meet friends. Her personal spending was less than $50 a month, mostly for small necessities or fruit. Eleanor went to the salon twice a week, charging $200 each time. Kevin, under the guise of entertaining clients, would frequently charge $500 or $600 for drinks. The real thing keeping this household afloat was the $2,000 her mother sent every month. And now that mother was lying in the ICU, hovering between life and death.

Emily navigated to the card management menu. She found the “Manage Authorized Users” tab. Kevin’s card ending in 1897. Eleanor’s card ending in 2045. She pressed the “Report Lost/Stolen and Deactivate” button.

The system asked again, “Are you sure you want to deactivate this card? Once deactivated, all transactions will be declined.”

She pressed confirm. Both cards were now deactivated. Next, she went into the autopayment settings for the electric bill, the gas bill, and the internet bill and cancelled them one by one. Each cancellation prompted a confirmation message. She pressed confirm for every single one. Her finger was steady, her breathing calm, as if she were handling a perfectly routine task.

Finally, she opened their family group chat. The chat name was “Our Family.” Three members: Emily, Kevin, Eleanor. The profile picture was a family photo taken three years ago when her father-in-law was still alive. The five of them stood in a row smiling, but the smiles were stiff, like taxidermy.

Emily typed a message:

“Thanksgiving catering has been cancelled. The credit cards and all automatic bill payments have also been stopped. Since you value your family traditions so much, you can start showing your devotion with your son’s money from now on.”

Send.

Then she switched her phone to silent mode and shoved it into her pocket. At the end of the hall, a nurse pushed a cart by. The sound of the wheels echoed in the empty corridor. The smell of antiseptic seemed to grow stronger. Emily leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes. Her face was throbbing. A scab was forming on the cut by her lip, making the skin feel tight, but it didn’t matter. She just wanted to rest for a moment.

Tomorrow she had to discuss the treatment plan with the doctor. She had to contact her mother’s workplace to arrange for medical leave. She had to go to her mother’s apartment to find her insurance card and other documents. There was a mountain of things to do. But at least she didn’t have to think about cooking that goddamn Thanksgiving dinner anymore.