My Son’s Wife Texted: “We Appreciate The House… But Dorothy Doesn’t Want You At Thanksgiving…”

Taking Back Control

I transferred the house back into my name that Tuesday morning. Sat in my lawyer’s office on Bloor Street, signed the papers, and walked out with the deed in my hand.

42 years I’d been a contractor in Toronto. 42 years of building homes for other families, and the one I’d given my own son, I was taking it back.

The whole thing started 6 weeks earlier, right before Thanksgiving. I was in my workshop in Mississauga refinishing an antique chair for my daughter-in-law, Claire, when my phone buzzed.

Text from my son Daniel: “Dad, we need to talk about Thanksgiving.”

I set down my sandpaper. Daniel was 36, married to Clare for eight years, two kids I adored. We’d always done Thanksgiving at their place ever since I bought them the house in Oakville 3 years ago.

Beautiful four-bedroom Victorian, needed work but had good bones. I’d put down $200,000 for the down payment. Told Daniel it was his early inheritance, that I wanted to see him enjoy it while I was still around to appreciate it.

I called him instead of texting back. That’s how my generation does things.

“Hey Dad,” his voice had that tight quality I’d started noticing over the past year. “Got your message. What about Thanksgiving?”

Silence. I could hear Clare talking in the background, couldn’t make out the words.

“So Dad, Clare’s mother wants to host this year.”

I waited. Dorothy had always been civil to me. Bit cold maybe, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

“Okay,” I said. “So you’re going to Montreal?”

“No, they’re coming here. To our house.”

“Our house,” not the house I’d bought them. “Our house. That sounds nice,” I said, still not seeing where this was going. “I’ll bring my maple bourbon glaze for the turkey.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Dad, the thing is Dorothy specifically requested that it just be her immediate family this year. She says Thanksgiving should be intimate. Just parents and kids.”

I stopped breathing for a second. Set down the chair leg I’d been holding.

“I’m not your immediate family? Dad, come on, you know what I mean. She means the grandparents, the kids, us. Dorothy and Richard feel like they haven’t had enough time with Emily and Jacob lately.”

“Dorothy and Richard,” I repeated their names like I was tasting something sour. “They live in Montreal. They see the kids three times a year. I see them every Sunday.”

“I know Dad, I know. It’s just this one year.”

“Did you tell her I bought you the house you’re hosting Thanksgiving in?”

“Dad, that’s not fair.”

“Answer the question, Daniel.”

He exhaled. “What do you want me to say? That I should cause a family conflict over one dinner? Clare’s really stressed about this already. Her mother has very specific ideas about how things should be done and Clare doesn’t want to fight with her. But she’s fine with you fighting with me.”

“We’re not fighting, Dad. I’m just asking you to understand.”

I looked around my workshop. Tools I’d collected over 42 years, my grandfather’s handsaw hanging on the wall. The workbench Daniel had helped me build when he was 12—more hindrance than help, but I’d let him think he was doing real work.

“I understand perfectly,” I said. “Tell Clare I hope she has a lovely Thanksgiving with her mother.”

I hung up before he could respond.