When I found out I was pregnant at forty, I thought life had decided to surprise me one last time before settling into middle age. My husband, Jayden, and I had been together for ten years, and we had long accepted that children might not be in our future. So when the second line appeared on that test, we were stunned, overjoyed, and more than a little terrified.
Fast-forward a year, and our daughter, Lily, was the center of our world. She was beautiful, bright-eyed, and demanding in all the ways babies tend to be. As much as I adored her, motherhood at forty came with its own challenges. I was constantly exhausted, constantly doubting myself, and constantly wondering if I was doing enough. The truth was, most days I felt like I was drowning in diapers, bottles, and sleepless nights.
So when Thanksgiving rolled around, I knew I didn’t have the energy to cook. I barely had the energy to shower and look presentable. But family obligations are tricky, and in our case, they were complicated by Jayden’s mother, Maris.
Maris was… intense. She had built her identity around being the “perfect hostess” and “keeper of traditions.” Her holiday dinners were legendary, at least in her own mind. Every dish had to be made from scratch, every table setting had to match, and every guest had to play their role in her carefully staged production. I knew walking in that I would be under a microscope.