So several years ago I told Golden I was struggling to find something worthy of writing about that I could put on this blog. She got me these books. During a cleaning binge recently I found them and decided to dust them off and actually use them. Here’s attempt Number 2 this time from the Complete the Story book. I admit I didn't know where this one was going when I started but here it is with a little help from Chat GPT when I got a little stuck. Who knows maybe I'll make this a weekly or monthly thing.
The prompt:
I stopped for a breath before cutting the turkey. I wanted to appreciate the moment. Seeing everyone there, sitting around the table, almost felt like we were a family again. It's a shame it can't always feel like that.
The story: The First Cut
I stopped for a breath before cutting the turkey. I wanted to appreciate the moment. Seeing everyone there, sitting around the table, almost felt like we were a family again. It's a shame it can't always feel like that. For a second, no one said anything. Just the clinking of glasses, the soft creak of chairs as everyone settled into their seats. Aunt May caught my eye and gave me a small nod, her smile tight but genuine. Even Uncle Dan had traded his usual scowl for a neutral expression — a small miracle in itself.
I pressed the carving knife into the golden skin and began slicing, the scent of rosemary and butter rising like steam from a memory. “So,” Mom said suddenly, breaking the silence, “does anyone remember when Jason dropped the turkey in ‘06?”
A few chuckles rippled around the table. Jason groaned. “I knew that was coming.”
“You tripped over your own shoelaces,” Cousin Claire added, laughing. “The bird went flying like a UFO.”
The tension broke a little. Laughter filled the gaps. I even saw Dad smile — really smile — for the first time in months. Jason lifted his voice over all the laughing, “hey we all still ate it once we cleaned it off!”
But just beneath the surface, I felt the weight of everything we weren’t saying. The reasons we’d drifted. The empty chair where Grandma used to sit. The unspoken arguments, the silences that used to last for days. Still, I kept carving. Piece by piece. Hoping, maybe foolishly, that this year would be different. Or at least… that it could be a start.
The chair at the end of the table stayed empty, though we’d still set it. Just habit, maybe. Or maybe because no one wanted to admit it out loud — that Grandma wasn’t coming home for Thanksgiving this year.
“She called this morning,” Mom said, passing the rolls with forced cheer. “Said the nurses let her watch the parade in the rec room. She liked the big Snoopy balloon. Said it was awfully quite around there today.”
No one responded at first. We just nodded, like we were all silently filing the information away somewhere — grateful for the update but unsure what to do with it and a little guilty they weren't there with her.
“She ask about us?” I asked finally, not looking up from the turkey.
“She always does.” Mom's smile faltered for half a second, just enough for me to catch it.
Grandma had been in rehab for three weeks now. After the fall. After the hospital. After the way her hands had started shaking so badly she could barely lift a spoon.
We’d all visited. At least once. But it didn’t feel the same. She didn’t feel the same.
“She’ll be back,” Jason said suddenly, surprising everyone. “For Christmas, probably.”
We all looked at him, and for a second I wanted to believe it too. But the way Mom looked down at her plate told a different story. We all looked at him. It was the first real thing he’d said all day, and his voice had that edge — the kind he got when he’d already made up his mind about something. At 22 years old he was still in that I know everything mindset without really knowing anything at all. He was scheduled to return to school for finals in a few days and then have a bit of a break. He was not planning on getting a job during his break but he also hadn’t gotten a job during summer break either.
I set the carving knife down. It wasn’t time to get into it.
“She might,” Mom said carefully. “We don’t know yet.”
Jason cleared his throat. “Actually, I wanted to say something.” He pushed back his chair just enough to make it squeak — that same old anxious tic from childhood. “I’m going to finish this semester but I’m not going back to school next semester,” he said. “I’ve decided to move in with Grandma. Help out with her so she can come back to her house. I’ll be there if she needs anything. You know, just—make sure she is taken care of, not alone.”
Silence.
Aunt May was the first to react. She set down her wine glass — hard
enough that the base echoed off the table.
“Jason, no. Absolutely not.” Her voice was firm, the kind that left no room for argument — or tried not to. “That’s not your job. You’re 22. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I’m afraid if you don’t go back to school you’ll never get your degree.”
“She doesn’t have much ahead of her,” Jason said quietly. “And she was there for me when no one else was. So… yeah. It is my job. School will be there … after…maybe.”
Aunt May leaned back, arms crossed, eyes sharp, deciding to not ignore the elephant in the room any longer. “Jason, she’s not coming home. Not really. I’ve talked to her doctors. They’re not going to say it outright, but—this is it. That place is her home now.”
Uncle Dan stared at the floor like this was a talk he had heard before, Mom looked like she wanted to say something but stayed silent, even the cousins stopped fidgeting eyes flicking between Jason and Aunt May. This was something they all knew was a possibility, but it hadn’t really been decided yet at least not as a family.
“I don’t care what the doctors think,” Jason said. “she’s coming home. She just needs time, care, and SUPPORT.”
“It’s not about what she says,” May snapped. “She’s confused. She doesn’t even remember what year it is half the time.”
That landed like a slap. Jason’s jaw tightened. “She remembers me. I’ve visited her every day since I got home. We laugh. She tells me stories, she remembers it’s just harder for her to voice it sometimes. I painted her nails once, changed her when she made a mess, and helped her wash her hair. I can do this!”
A long pause followed. No one realized he had been visiting her every day since he got home. The turkey was getting cold. The cranberry sauce sat untouched. Finally, Dad muttered, “Maybe we should all just eat.”
But the air had changed. Something had cracked.
Jason shifted in his seat, clearly trying to hold his ground, but something in his posture had changed. Like the armor was starting to slip. “I’m not trying to be a hero,” he said, quieter now. “It just makes sense. She needs someone. I’ve got the time.”
Aunt May wasn’t buying it. “You also don’t have a job, Jason. Or a plan. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Her tone was sharp but not unkind — just tired. “This is easier than figuring out what you actually want.”
Jason’s eyes darted to Mom, maybe hoping for a lifeline. She stayed
neutral, which was somehow worse.
“I do want this,” he insisted, but the words hung a little hollow, "she needs this ... she needs .. ME!"
“You don’t want to go back to school,” May said flatly. “And you don’t want to admit you have no idea what comes next. So taking care of Grandma gives you an out. You get to say you’re doing something important, and maybe you are — but it also means you don’t have to do anything else.”
He didn’t deny it.
I watched him shrink a little in his seat, not defeated, just... exposed. There was no speech coming. No big defense.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “I’m not like you guys. I don’t have this big plan. School felt like pretending. I’d sit in class and feel like I was watching someone else’s life happen. It's not that it is hard it just feels like I'm drifting and I could be drifting or I could be with Grandma who needs someone. At least around her I feel like I matter.”
That quieted the table.
Even May seemed to soften, if only slightly. “You do matter. But you can’t pour your whole self into someone who’s already halfway out the door. That’s not saving her. That’s getting stuck. You do realize it could be 6 months, 2 years, 5 years, we just don't know.”
Jason looked down at his plate. He didn’t say anything else.
The turkey was finally being passed around again, but everything tasted different now. The conversations started back up about daily life, and a discussion about the big game coming up. They all felt that this was a return to a semi normal holiday lunch, but it felt like a calm before another storm.
Once dinner was over and the plates had been cleared away many retreated to the living room to watch football, play cards, work on a puzzle together. The kids went into the yard to play. Jason quietly slipped out of the house cause he couldn’t let the day go by without going to see his grandmother. During clean up he fixed her a plate of all of her favorite things it was time for him to deliver it to her.
She scarfed down the plate of food like she hadn’t eaten in days and thanked him for it as she did. He told her who all was at lunch and how it wasn’t the same without her there. When she asked if anyone else was coming to visit he had to admit he didn’t know. As she finished her lunch he removed her plate and sat back on the edge of the bed. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as Jason sat by the edge of Grandma’s bed, holding her hand gently in both of his. Her fingers, once strong and quick with crochet hooks, and casserole dishes, now trembled softly as they rested in his. It was time to tell her.
“You’re looking better,” Jason said, trying to smile. “Way better than the other day at least. Your color is coming back.”
Grandma smiled back, a little lopsided but still hers. “They’ve got me doing leg lifts. Nasty little things. But I’m strong.” She tapped her knee. “Still got some kick left. I walked down the hall and back this morning! They wanted me to use that blasted wheelchair but I wanted to see if I could do it.”
Jason nodded. He was quiet for a long moment after that. Then he drew a breath, shaky and too loud in the small room. “I wanted to tell you something,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “I… I can’t move in with you. When you get out.”
Her face fell slowly, like a curtain dropping.
“I thought maybe I could,” he went on, eyes flicking away. “But they’re saying it’s not safe. That I’m not ready for that kind of responsibility. That I might do more harm than good. I just… I wanted to believe we could make it work.”
Grandma didn’t answer right away. Her eyes filled, not sudden and dramatic, but slow — the kind of tears that come from somewhere deep, old, tired. “So I won’t be going home,” she said softly.
Jason swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
“But I won’t.” She nodded a little, like she was confirming it to herself. “They’ve been telling me that. I just didn’t want to hear it unless it came from you.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice was small now. “I really wanted to be there for you.”
She squeezed his hand with what strength she had left. “You are here for me.”
Neither of them saw Aunt May standing in the doorway.
She’d come to drop off some fresh socks and books and it never even dawned on her to bring a plate, which she saw on the side table and knew Jason had to have brought it. When she saw the two of them — the way Jason sat slumped forward, head bowed in quiet shame, the way Grandma looked at him like he was the last bright thread of a fading world — she froze. Something inside her shifted. Because suddenly, she remembered all the times she hadn’t been there — too busy, too tired, too practical. All the holidays she left early cause something “important” came up, the times she put work over family, the times she frankly didn’t have time for the drama. The calls she sent to voicemail. The she thought of how her grandmother had never done that to her. Of the times Grandma had shown up to help with the kids during school breaks, the meals she’d bring over cause she frankly didn’t want to eat alone and grandpa was off somewhere, the mess that she would clean up or laundry she would take over — all without being asked. And Jason, awkward and lost as he was, had noticed what she hadn’t. And now here he was — not hiding. Not running. Just sitting with someone who was fading, refusing to let her go invisible.
Quietly, May stepped back from the door and wiped her face with the
sleeve of her coat before she walked in.
“Hey,” she said softly, as she entered the room, “Mind if I join you guys?”
Jason looked up, surprised. Grandma smiled through her tears. May pulled a chair over and sat on the other side of the bed. She reached out, took Grandma’s other hand, and for once didn’t say anything practical at all. They just sat there. Three generations. Nothing solved, nothing fixed — but for the first time, something was shared.
-------
The morning Jason left for finals, the sky was still that pale winter
gray that makes everything feel half-asleep.
He stood in the driveway, stuffing his duffel into the backseat of his beat-up Honda. May was already outside, holding a travel mug in one hand and a manila folder in the other — her version of a goodbye gift.
“I threw in a gas card and a few gift cards so you won’t starve. Study hard but don’t forget to take care of yourself,” she said, handing over the folder. “oh and I also printed out a study guide from one of those sites I know you don’t actually use.”
Jason grinned, a little sheepishly. “Thanks, Aunt May.” They stood there for a second, the air between them filled with all the words they’d already said — and the quiet relief of knowing they didn’t need to repeat them.
“I’ll check in on her while you’re gone,” May said, more gently than
she normally spoke. “Every couple of days at least if not more.”
Jason nodded. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” she cut in. Then, after a beat, “You were right, by the way. She was always there. I just never let myself notice it.”
Jason didn’t say anything. He just hugged her — a little stiff at first, then solid. Then he jumped in his car and backed out of the driveway.
The nursing home was quiet later that week when May sat down with the doctors. They gave her their professional opinion: it was too risky. The house wasn’t equipped. There was a fall risk. There were care needs. They weren’t wrong. But May had made up her mind.
“She wants to go home,” she said. “I want to give her that. Even if it’s not forever. Even if it’s just for a little while.”
The paperwork was tedious, the calls endless, the modifications to the
house a headache. But somehow, it all got done. A borrowed hospital bed. A home
nurse two days a week. Rails on the stairs. Meals in the freezer.
And when Jason came back, road-weary and sleep-deprived but somehow a little taller, a little clearer — the front door opened, and there she was.
Sitting in the living room. Wrapped in her favorite blue cardigan. The afternoon sun spilling through the lace curtains. Her photos back on the mantle. Her life — pieced together, if imperfectly — in its rightful place.
“Surprise,” May said from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish
towel. “Don’t get excited. It’s still trial and error.”
Jason just stared. Then he walked over to Grandma and knelt beside her, taking her hand. “You’re home.”
She smiled, eyes glistening. “I told you I would be.”
Behind him, May leaned against the doorframe and watched as her mother’s frail hand rested in Jason’s steady one. She still wasn’t sure this would work. But for once, she didn’t need certainty. She just needed this moment — this return, this connection, this choice — and for now, that was enough. Jason walked over and hugged her, quiet but saying everything at the same time.
A few weeks later the house smelled like cinnamon and cloves, like pine needles and roast turkey. Snow had fallen the night before, blanketing the yard in soft white that seemed to hush the whole world.
Christmas lights blinked gently around the window frames. Someone had set Grandma’s old ceramic tree on the sideboard, its tiny colored bulbs glowing like candy. Holiday music played faintly in the background — the old stuff, the records she loved to hum along with, that Jason has started learning by heart singing along with her as they played. It took some doing but Grandma sat at the head of the table, wrapped in a quilt she’d sewn decades ago. Her breathing was slower now, and her frame seemed smaller every time Jason looked at her — but her eyes sparkled brighter than they had in years. She looked out over her table with all the glit and glitter that a festive holiday occasion called for and took stock in her family surrounding her and quietly thanked God for a wonderful life. The chaos and laughter and clink of glasses that came with a big family meal had all returned to this house, even just for today. Her house. Her family. She was home.
Jason stood beside her, watching carefully as she reached for the carving knife. Her hand trembled as she gripped the handle. Then she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his.
“I think it’s your turn, sweetheart,” she said, and handed him the knife.
He took it gently, both hands, as if it were something sacred. Maybe it was.
Everyone grew quiet for a moment as he stood there, looking around the table — at May, who gave him the smallest nod, at Mom, at his cousins, all of them waiting, breathing in something tender and unspoken.
“I want to thank you all,” Jason said. “For being here. For showing up. For letting today be about joy, not sadness. That’s what she wanted. That’s what we all needed.”
Grandma smiled, a single tear slipping down her cheek. Not from grief — from fullness. Jason turned back to the turkey and slowly, carefully, made the first cut. A moment passed. Then another. And just like that, the room exhaled as he started passing around the slices and mentioned that time he dropped the turkey.
Laughter started again. More plates were passed, wine was consumed. Stories flowed like cider. For that one afternoon it was not about endings. It was about everything that had ever mattered before and everything that would come tomorrow cause there would be a tomorrow and time only knew how long they would have for days like this.
Well there you go ... .what did you think ?! Anyone.... Buller?! Buller ?! IYKYK :)
Marcy
