When my husband Mike tossed $20 at me and demanded I cook Thanksgiving dinner for his family, I realized I was done being his maid, chef, and doormat.

For two years, I bent over backward to keep him and his family happy. His mother, Maureen, treated me like a free servant, always commenting on how “a good wife” should cook. His father, Richard, joked that I should open a catering business since I was “already running one for free.” Mike just shrugged it off, expecting me to comply.

When he handed me that $20 and told me not to “embarrass him,” something snapped. Instead of arguing, I planned.

I used my secret savings to order a lavish catered feast and decorated our home beautifully. Thanksgiving arrived, and Mike basked in the praise of his family, boasting about my “resourcefulness.”

Then I stood and raised my glass. “Mike gave me $20 for this feast. But instead of struggling, I treated myself. This is all catered.”

Maureen’s fork froze. Richard looked at Mike, who squirmed in his seat.

“And,” I added, “this is the last Thanksgiving I’ll ever cook for you. You can figure out next year’s meal on your own.”

I walked out, enjoying a solo Thanksgiving with wine in my car.

Mike’s desperate texts poured in. “You embarrassed me!” “Come back!”

A week later, I handed him divorce papers. His shock was priceless.

For the first time in years, I looked forward to the holidays—because this time, they were mine.