I spent hours preparing a Thanksgiving feast with love: a turkey recipe passed down from my mother, perfect pecan pie, creamy mashed potatoes, and savory stuffing. Despite my aching knees, the joy of cooking for my family kept me going. My granddaughter, Chloe, always says, “Grandma, your food tastes like love.”

But this year, there was tension. My daughter-in-law, Candace, never appreciated my cooking, preferring store-bought shortcuts. Still, I was hopeful when she offered to help—something she’d never done before.

But when I went upstairs to rest, I woke to the shocking sight of Candace serving a meal that wasn’t mine. My dishes, sealed in containers, were tossed in the trash. Chloe saw it, and with a gleam in her eye, whispered, “Don’t worry, Grandma, I took care of it.”

The dinner was a disaster. Candace’s turkey and stuffing were unbearably salty. The room fell silent, and guests struggled to eat. That’s when Chloe led me to the garage fridge. I had prepared extra dishes, just in case. Brad helped me bring them to the table, and the guests’ faces lit up.

Candace, embarrassed, apologized later. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought your food was old-fashioned.”

Chloe smiled, “Your food saved Thanksgiving, Grandma.”

As I hugged her, I realized that, despite everything, the love of my granddaughter was the greatest gift of all.