Articles & Advice

ur dining room hadn't seen many Thanksgivings, not with relatives scattered across the continent and a sister-in-law who called dibs on hosting every major holiday. But after Craig and I divorced, I felt an almost visceral need to "do Thanksgiving" at my house, at my table, with my family gathered 'round.

In reality I barely had the emotional strength back then to cook breakfast, let alone roast a stuffed turkey with all the trimmings. I also didn't want to break my kids' holiday routine; I figured their lives had been disrupted enough. So while my ex-husband and the kids headed South to Aunt Claire's, I spent that last weekend of November freezing in Montreal with a girlfriend, figuring I'd be happier where they didn't celebrate the early settlers of Plymouth County.

I was only marginally happier. I missed my kids and felt unmoored. So the following year I resolved to figure out a way to have a real Thanksgiving dinner at my house. But why? Both Craig and I had always been stubbornly averse to ritual, whether religious or secular. We never fought his sister for the right to host any holiday; as far as we were concerned, if Claire wanted the work and mess, fine with us. But after the divorce, holidays suddenly became heavy with symbolism, emotion, and meaning. Now it seemed more important than ever to celebrate as a family, even if our family had been dramatically reconfigured. I decided that I'd invite Craig. And, yes, his girlfriend, too. Some of my friends thought I was insane. Others thought I was stupid. Maybe I was a little of both. But most of all I wanted my kids at my table on Thanksgiving and didn't think it was fair to expect them to celebrate without their father.

I figured there would be blowback. After nearly 20 years of Claire's Thanksgivings - an enterprise as extravagant and delicious as anything Martha Stewart might engineer - I doubted anyone would want to celebrate with me. I was right, and I was wrong. Craig's parents, sister, and brother-in-law all declined the offer. But Craig gratefully accepted, and my kids - who still can't quite understand how their father and I can be friends if we're divorced - seemed happy that we would all be together.

So I cleaned my house and set my table. I roasted a turkey. Craig brought the green bean casserole. His girlfriend - I actually like her, in spite of myself - made an apple pie. The evening was not without its uncomfortable moments. I felt guilty when my kids - who are as attached to tradition as Craig and I were averse to it - grumbled just a little about missing out on Aunt Claire's Olympic-caliber cooking and seeing their extended family. When Craig and his girlfriend acted lovey-dovey, I felt strange. Not jealous, just strange.

There were a few other moments that clearly marked this Thanksgiving as different from the pre-divorce version. Not just the absence of Craig's parents and siblings, but the presence of a few local stragglers who had nowhere else to go for dinner. They weren't really close friends - one was a co-worker, another was an elderly neighbor - but I invited them anyway. I meant to diffuse the weirdness but I'm afraid I only intensified it.

The other big difference was that I cleaned up alone. Craig left early-in spite of the kids' entreaties for him to stay longer. I could tell by the look on his face that he was a little overwhelmed by the experience and was beginning to feel claustrophobic. When we were married, Craig was a whirling dervish in the kitchen, scraping plates and loading the dishwasher single-handedly until everything sparkled. This Thanksgiving I was left to clean up on my own, and I confess I didn't have the fortitude to do it. I let the dog lick the serving platters and let the rest of the dishes wait until the next day. That night I treated myself to a bubble bath and Monty Python's Life of Brian, the one movie that never fails to make me laugh.

In the morning I found an email from Craig, thanking me for a "wonderful" Thanksgiving. I emailed back with a simple, "You're welcome." There was so much more I could have said but, three years after getting divorced, I have discovered that discretion isn't merely the better part of valor, it's a marker of my own hard-earned progress. And this coming Thanksgiving, I strongly suspect, will be even more wonderful.

Sara Susannah Katz is a writer in the Midwest. She is the author of the novel Wife Living Dangerously (Warner Books). She writes the popular "Single in the Suburbs" column; click Single in the Suburbs to read from the beginning.