"Touchdown!"

The cheer erupting from the living room only deepened Annie's frustration. Less than an hour ago, her family pushed back from the table, leaving behind the carcass of the turkey and the stains of their gluttony on her linen tablecloth. Annie stared at the carnage and had an overwhelming urge to cry. She wouldn't, of course--at least not in front of her family.

For them--her family--it was another perfect Thanksgiving. And why wouldn't it be? Their only duty was to show up on time. Annie had tried to change things around this year, but her suggestions had been shot down.

"A hotel? Are you crazy? Why would we go to a hotel for Thanksgiving dinner when everyone would prefer to be here?" Frank was adamant. "Would you really want our kids and grandkids to go to some place impersonal for the holidays?"

Annie tried another tactic, thinking she could elicit some help from her daughter, but her requst fell flat.

"Do you think we could make Thanksgiving a potluck dinner this year, Sandra?"

Sandy had been outraged. "Come on, Mom. I can't cook worth a sh..." Her daughter caught herself before the profanity slipped out of her mouth.

"Well, maybe it's time you learned--took a turn." It was a futile argument. While everyone else was acting like the holiday dinner was sacred, Annie was tired of it all. No one noticed that she barely had time to eat or enjoy the company of her family.

"It doesn't matter," she muttered as she scrubbed the pots. "None of it matters. What I think doesn't matter." With the scent of turkey roasting in the house all day, she'd lost her appetite, as she did every year.Tradition, she smirked.

Her daughter had helped scrape the plates and clear the table, but she'd drifted in to watch the game, barely conscious of the leftovers that needed to be dealt with and the pans that needed elbow grease.

"Sandy, you don't even like football," Annie snapped.

"It's a tradition, Mom. Come on and watch the game. You can deal with the mess later."

I can, can I? Yeah right, Annie thought, leaving the pot to soak. If the gravy soaks into Grandma's precious table cloth, it will be one less tradition to deal with come Christmas.

She left the kitchen, gathering up the table cloth and began to fill the laundry tub with hot soapy water. Cursing under her breath, she poured half the bottle of bleach into the steamy tub and poked at the linen until it was completely submerged. For a moment, sentiment washed over her, reminding Annie how she'd sat at her grandmother's table each Thanksgiving, trying hard not to spill anything on the beautiful white cloth. I wonder if she felt the same way I do right now--like the family servant.

"Ma, where'd ya put the dressing?"

Had she been gone just a few minutes? It didn't seem possible. Frank had the turkey pulled out of the refrigerator and was making sandwiches, helped by Rob, Sandy's husband.

"You just ate!" Annie hadn't finished cleaning up and there, on the counter, were half the containers she'd just put away. "Frank, look at the mess you're making."

Rob smiled, thinking his mother-in-law was joking. "It's your fault for making everything taste so good."

She glared at Frank. "What?" He shrugged his shoulders. "It's half-time." A sandwich plate in one hand and potato chips in the other, he turned his back to Annie and headed for the living room as the second-half whistle blared from the TV.

"Can you get me a beer?" He called over his shoulder.

Later, after everyone was gone, Annie sat on the edge of the bed, methodically massaging lotion into her hands. She glanced at her engagement set and pulled them off her finger. The settings were clogged with traces of the meal; dried gravy and a cranberry firmly trapped behind the centre stone.

"Great dinner, as always." Frank said, as he came out of the bathroom. What's wrong?" He could sense the tension in the bedroom.

"Nothing's wrong. Why would anything be wrong? I'm fine, just bloody-well fine."

Frank's sharp intake of breath irritated Annie. While he was reacting to his wife cursing, a cardinal family taboo she enforced for thirty-five years of marriage, Annie's afternoon boil was threatening to bubble over.

"Do you have any idea how long it took to prepare dinner? Do you?" Annie's voice was barely a whisper and yet icicles hung from every word. "Three different pies, and why's that, Frank?"

After almost four decades, he knew better than to say a word when Annie loaded her conversation with questions she didn't want answered.

"Because, everyone has a favourite pie and I'm supposed to please all of you--all of YOU!"

Frank felt a need to defend himself. "You don't have to do that, Annie. You could just make one--pumpkin pie would be fine."

"That's because that's your favourite. What's my favourite?"

"I don't know," he answered truthfully. "I'm guessing--pumpkin?"

"It's lemon meringue."

"Annie, come to bed. It's almost midnight. Whatever is on your mind, it can wait until the morning."

"Midnight? It's midnight?"

Frank crawled under the covers, barely able to keep his eyes open. "Aren't you coming to bed, Annie?" He murmured, snoring before his head hit the pillow.

Annie went downstairs and sighed when she saw the empty pie plate on the counter, Frank's bedtime snack, she guessed, but it no longer bothered her. Her mood had lightened. Its over--I didn't crack under pressure.

She watched the clock crawl toward midnight as she gathered up her purse and keys. By the time Thanksgiving officially became yesterday, Annie was already parking her car, ready to join the line-up outside of Barney's.

A small group of women stepped aside, making room for Annie on the sidewalk. A knowing smile passed between them, each understanding they were there to reward themselves for their annual holiday sacrifices. If we don't show ourselves some appreciation, Annie thought, who will? Before she abandoned herself to her Black Friday shopping spree, she made a firm resolution. Next year, I'll make a lemon pie and buy all the rest. Nobody will even notice--but I'll know. I'm going to change tradition--one step at a time.